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FOUR  ONE-ACT  PLAYS 


FOUR  ONE- ACT  PLAYS 

THE     CLOD  — A     GUEST     FOR     DINNER 
LOVE   AMONG   THE   LIONS  —  BROTHERS 


BY 

LEWIS  BEACH 


BRENTANO'S,     Publishers 
NEW    YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 

BRENTANO'S 
All  rights  reserved 


To 

MY  MOTHER  AND  FATHER 


In  their  present  form  these  plays  are  dedicated  to  the 
reading  public  only,  and  no  performance  of  them  may  be 
given.  Any  piracy  or  infringement  will  be  prosecuted  in 
accordance  with  the  penalties  provided  by  the  United  States 
Statutes. 

Persons  desiring  to  produce  any  of  the  plays  should 
address  the  author  in  care  of  the  publishers. 

"Sec.  4966. — Any  person  publicly  performing  or  repre 
senting  any  dramatic  or  musical  composition  for  which 
copyright  has  been  obtained,  without  the  consent  of  the 
proprietor  of  said  dramatic  or  musical  composition,  or  his 
heirs  and  assigns,  shall  be  liable  for  damages  therefor,  such 
damages  in  all  cases  to  be  assessed  at  such  sum,  not  less 
than  one  hundred  dollars  for  the  first  and  fifty  dollars  for 
every  subsequent  performance,  as  to  the  court  shall  appear 
to  be  just.  If  the  unlawful  performance  and  representation 
be  wilful  and  for  profit,  such  person  or  persons  shall  be 
guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  upon  conviction  be  im 
prisoned  for  a  period  not  exceeding  one  year."  U.  S. 
Revised  Statutes,  Title  60,  Chap.  3. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  CLOD 1 

A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 23 

LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 53 

BROTHERS 77 


NOTE.— Throughout   "right"    and   "left"   are   the    actor's 
"right"  and  "left,"  not  the  spectator's. 


THE  CLOD 

Suggested    by    The    Least    of    These,— a 
short-story  by  DONAL  HAMILTON  RAINES. 


CHARACTERS 

THADDEUS  TRASK 
MARY  TRASK 
A  NORTHERN  PRIVATE 
A  SOUTHERN  SERGEANT 
A  SOUTHERN  PRIVATE 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  BY 
LEWIS  BEACH. 


Originally   staged  by   The   Harvard  Dramatic 
Club,  March  31,  1914. 


THE  CLOD 

SCENE:  The  kitchen  of  a  farmhouse  on  the 
borderline  between  the  Northern,  and  Southern 
states.  It  is  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening,  Septem 
ber,  1863. 

The  back  wall  is  broken  at  stage  left  by  the  pro 
jection  at  right  angles  of  a  partially  enclosed 
staircase;  the  four  steps  leading  to  the  landing 
cut  into  the  room.  Underneath  the  enclosed  part 
of  the  stairway,  a  cubby-hole;  in  front  of  it  a  small 
table  which  partially  hides  the  door.  To  the  left 
of  the  table  a  kitchen  chair.  A  door,  leading  to 
the  yard,  is  the  centre  of  the  unbroken  wall,  back. 
To  the  right  of  the  door,  a  cupboard;  to  the  left, 
a  small  cooking-stove.  Two  windows  in  the  right 
wall.  Between  them  a  bench  on  which  a  pail  and  a 
tin  dipper  stand.  Above  the  bench  a  towel  hang 
ing  on  a  nail,  and  above  the  towel  a  double-bar 
relled  shot-gun  suspended  on  two  pegs.  Well 
downstage  left,  a  closed  door  leading  to  a  second 
room.  In  the  centre  of  the  kitchen  a  large  table; 
straight-backed  chairs  to  the  right  and  left  of  it. 
A  lighted  candle  on  this  table. 

The  moon  shines  into  the  room  through  the 
windows,  but  at  no  time  is  the  kitchen  brightly 
lighted.  The  characters  appear  as  silhouettes  ex- 


THE  CLOD 

cept  when  they  stand  near  the  candle  or  the  lan 
tern,  and  then  the  lights  throw  huge  shadows  on 
the  roughly  plastered  walls.  When  the  door, 
back,  is  opened  one  sees  a  bit  of  the  farmyard, 
desolate  even  in  the  moonlight. 

(As  the  curtain  rises,  Thaddeus  Trash,  a  man 
of  sixty  odd  years,  short  and  thick-set,  slow  in 
speech  and  action^  yet  m  perfect  health,  sits  at 
the  left  of  the  centre  table.  He  is  pressing  to 
bacco  into  his  corncob  pipe.  He  lights  it  with 
the  candle. 

After  a  moment,  Mary  Traslc,  a  tired,  emaci 
ated  woman,  whose  years  equal  Tier  husband's, 
enters  from  the  yard  carrying  a  heavy  pail  of 
water  and  a  lighted  lantern.  She  puts  the  pail  on 
the  bench  and  hangs  the  lantern  above  it;  then 
crosses  to  the  stove.) 

MARY.  Ain't  got  wood  'nough  fer  breakfast, 
Thad. 

THADDEUS.  I'm  too  tired  t'  go  out  now.  Wait 
'til  mornin'. 

[Pause.    Mary  lays  the  -pre  in  the  stove.~\ 

THADDEUS.  Did  I  tell  yuh  that  old  man  Reed 
saw  three  Southern  troopers  pass  his  house  this 
mornin'  ? 

MARY  [takes  coffee-pot  from  stove,  crosses  to 
bench,  fills  pot  with  water~]  I  wish  them  soldiers 
would  git  out  o'  the  neighborhood.  Whenever  I 
see  'em  passin',  I  have  t'  steady  myself  'gainst 
somethin'  or  I'd  fall.  I  couldn't  hardly  breathe 
yesterday  when  them  Southerners  came  after  fod 
der.  I'd  died  if  they'd  spoke  t'  me. 
[  4  ] 


THE  CLOD 

THADDEUS.  Yuh  needn't  be  afraid  o'  Northern 
soldiers. 

MARY  [carries  coffee-pot  to  stove]  I  hate  'em 
all, — Union  or  Southern.  I  can't  make  head  or  tail 
t'  what  all  this  fightin's  'bout.  An'  I  don't  care 
who  wins,  so  long  as  they  git  through,  an'  them 
soldiers  stop  stealin'  our  corn  an'  potatoes. 

THADDEUS.  Yuh  can't  hardly  blame  'em  *if 
they're  hungry,  ken  yuh? 

MARY.  It  ain't  right  that  they  should  steal 
from  us  poor  folk.  [Lifts  a  huge  gunny  sack  of 
potatoes  from  the  table,  and  begins  setting  the 
table  for  breakfast,  getting  knives,  forks,  spoons, 
plates,  cups  and  saucers, — two  of  each,  from  the 
cupboard.]  We  have  hard  'nough  times  t'  make 
things  meet  now.  I  ain't  set  down  onct  today  'ccpt 
fer  meals.  An'  when  I  think  o'  the  work  I  got  t' 
do  t'morrow,  I  ought  t'  been  in  bed  hours  ago. 

THADDEUS.  I'd  help  if  I  could,  but  it  ain't  my 
fault  if  the  Lord  seed  fit  t'  lay  me  up  so  I'm 
always  ailin'.  [Rises  lazily.]  Yuh  better  try  an' 
take  things  easy  t'morrow. 

MARY.  It's  well  enough  t'  say,  but  them  apples 
is  got  t'  be  picked  an'  the  rest  o'  the  potatoes 
sorted.  If  I  could  sleep  at  night  it'd  be  all  right, 
but  with  them  soldiers  'bout,  I  can't. 

THADDEUS  [crosses  right;  fondly  handles  his 
gun]  Jolly,  wish  I'd  see  a  flock  o'  birds. 

MARY  [nervously]  I'd  rather  go  without  than 
hear  yuh  fire.  I  wish  yuh  didn't  keep  it  loaded. 

THADDEUS.  Yuh  know  I  ain't  got  time  t'  stop 
an'  load  when  I  see  the  birds.  They  don't  wait  fer 

[  5  ] 


THE  CLOD 

yuh.  [Hangs  gun  on  wall,  drops  into  his  chair; 
dejectedly.']  Them  pigs  has  got  t'  be  butchered. 

MARY.  Wait  'til  I  git  a  chance  t'  go  t'  sister's. 
I  can't  stand  it  t'  hear  'em  squeal. 

THADDEUS  [pulling  off  his  boots:  grunting 
meanwhile]  Best  go  soon  then,  'cause  they's  fat  as 
they'll  ever  be,  an'  there  ain't  no  use  in  wastin'  feed 
oil  'em.  [Pause;  rises']  Ain't  yuh  most  ready 
fer  bed? 

MARY.     Go  on  up. 

[Thaddeus  takes  the  candle  in  one  hand,  his 
boots  in  the  other,  and  climbs  the  stairs.  Mary 
speaks  when  he  reaches  the  landing.] 

MARY.     An'  Thad,  try  not  t'  snore  t'night. 

THADDEUS.     Poke  me  if  I  do.      [Disappears.] 

[Mary  fills  the  kettle  with  water  and  puts  it  on 
the  stove;  closes  the  door,  back;  takes  the  lantern 
from  the  wall  and  tries  twice  before  she  succeeds  in 
blowing  it  out.  Puts  the  lantern  on  the  table  be 
fore  the  cubby-hole.  Slowly  drags  herself  up  the 
stairs,  pausing  a  moment  on  the  top  step  for 
breath  before  she  disappears.  There  is  a  silence. 
Then  the  door,  back,  is  opened  a  trifle  and  a  man's 
hand  is  seen.  Cautiously  the  door  is  opened  wide 
and  a  young  Northern  Private  stands  silhouetted 
on  the  threshold.  He  wears  a  dirty  uniform,  and  a 
bloody  bandage  is  tied  about  his  head.  He  is 
wounded,  sick,  and  exhausted.  He  stands  at  the 
door  a  moment,  listening  intently;  then  hastily 
moves  to  the  centre  table  looking  for  food.  He 
bumps  against  a  chair  and  mutters  an  oath.  Find 
ing  nothing  on  the  table,  he  hurries  to  the  cup- 
[  6  ] 


THE  CLOD 

board.  Suddenly  the  galloping  of  horses  is  heard 
in  the  distance.  The  Northerner  starts.  Then 
rushes  to  the  window  nearer  the  audience.  For  a 
moment  the  sound  ceases,  then  it  begins  again, 
growing  gradually  louder  and  louder.  The 
Northerner  hurries  into  the  room  at  the  left. 
Horses  and  voices  are  heard  in  the  yard,  and  al 
most  immediately  heavy,  thundering  knocks  sound 
on  the  door,  back.  The  men  at  the  door  grow  im 
patient  and  push  the  door  open.  A  large,  power 
fully  built  Southern  Sergeant,  and  a  smaller, 
younger  Trooper  of  the  same  army  enter.  Thad- 
deus  appears  on  the  stairs,  carrying  a  candle.^ 

SERGEANT  [to  Thaddeus;  not  unkindly\  Sorry, 
my  friend,  but  you  were  so  darn  slow  'bout  openin* 
the  door  that  we  had  to  walk  in.  Has  there  been 
a  Northern  soldier  round  here  today? 

THADDEUS  [timidly"]  I  ain't  seed  one.  [Comes 
down  the  stairs.^ 

SERGEANT.     Have  you  been  here  all  day? 

THADDEUS.     I  ain't  stirred  from  the  place. 

SERGEANT.     Call  the  rest  of  your  family  down. 

THADDEUS.  My  wife's  all  there  is.  [Goes  to 
foot  of  stairs,  and  calls  loudly  and  excitedly^ 
Mary!  Mary!  Come  down.  Right  off! 

SERGEANT.  You  better  not  lie  to  me  or  it'll  go 
tough  with  you. 

THADDEUS.     I  swear  I  ain't  seed  no  one. 

[Mary  comes  downstairs  slowly.  She  is  all 
atremble.'] 

THADDEUS.     Say,  Mary,  you  was  here — 

[  7  ] 


THE  CLOD 

SERGEANT.  Keep  still,  man.  I'll  do  the  talkin'. 
[To  Mary~\  You  were  here  at  the  house  all  day? 

[Mary  is  'very  frightened  and  embarrassed,  but 
after  a  moment  manages  to  nod  "her  head  slowly.'] 

SERGEANT.  You  didn't  take  a  trip  down  to  the 
store? 

[Mary  shakes  her  head  slowly  J] 

SERGEANT.     Haven't  you  got  a  tongue? 

MARY  [with  difficulty]  Y-e-s. 

SERGEANT.  Then  use  it.  The  Northern  soldier 
who  came  here  a  while  ago  was  pretty  badly 
wounded,  wasn't  he? 

MARY.     I — I — no  one's  been  here. 

SERGEANT.     Come,     come,     woman,     don't     lie. 

[Mary  shows  a  slight  sign  of  anger."] 

SERGEANT.  He  had  a  bad  cut  in  his  forehead, 
and  you  felt  sorry  for  him,  and  gave  him  a  bite 
to  eat. 

MARY  [haltingly']  No  one's  been  near  the  house 
t'day. 

SERGEANT  [trying  a  different  tone]  We're  not 
going  to  hurt  him,  woman.  He's  a  friend  of  ours. 
We  want  to  find  him,  and  put  him  in  a  hospital, 
don't  we,  Dick?  [Turning  to  his  companion.'] 

DICK.  He's  sick  and  needs  to  go  to  bed  for  a 
while. 

MARY.     He  ain't  here. 

SERGEANT.     What  do  you  want  to  lie  for? 

MARY  [quickly]  I  ain't  lyin'.  I  ain't  seed  no 
soldier.  [She  stands  rooted  to  the  spot  where  she 
stopped  when  she  came  downstairs.  Her  eyes  are 
still  fixed  on  the  Sergeant."] 

[  8] 


THE  CLOD 

SERGEANT.  I  reckon  you  know  what'll  happen 
to  you  if  you  are  hidin'  the  spy. 

THADDEUS.  There  ain't  no  one  here.  We  both 
been  here  all  day,  an'  there  couldn't  no  one  come 
without  our  knowin'  it.  What  would  they  want 
round  here  anyway? 

SERGEANT.     We'll  search  the  place,  Dick. 

MARY  [quickly]  Yuh  ain't  got  no — 

SERGEANT  [sharply]  What's  that,  woman? 

MARY.  There  ain't  no  one  here,  an'  yer  keepin' 
us  from  our  sleep. 

SERGEANT.  Your  sleep?  This  is  an  affair  of 
life  and  death.  Get  us  a  lantern. 

[Thaddeus  moves  to  the  small  table  and  lights 
the  lantern  with  the  candle  which  he  holds  in  his 
hand.  He  gives  the  lantern  to  the  Sergeant.] 

SERGEANT  [noticing  the  door  to  the  cubby-hole] 
Ha !  Tryin'  to  hide  the  door,  are  you,  by  puttin' 
a  table  in  front  of  it?  You  can't  fool  me.  [To 
Thaddeus]  Pull  the  table  away  and  let's  see  what's 
behind  the  door. 

THADDEUS.  It's  a  cubby-hole  an'  ain't  been 
opened  in  years. 

SERGEANT  [sternly  and  emphatically]  I  said  to 
open  the  door. 

[Thaddeus  sets  the  candle  on  the  larger  table, 
moves  the  smaller  table  to  the  right,  and  open*  the 
door  to  the  cubby-hole.  Mary  is  angry.  The 
Sergeant  takes  a  long-barrelled  revolver  from  his 
belt  and  peers  into  the  cubby-hole.'] 

SERGEANT  [returning  his  revolver  to  his  belt] 
[9  ] 


THE  CLOD 

We're  goin'  to  tear  this  place  to  pieces  'til  we  find 
him.  You  might  just  as  well  hand  him  over  now. 

MARY.     There  ain't  no  one  here. 

SERGEANT.  All  right.  Now  we'll  see.  Dick, 
you  stand  guard  at  the  door. 

[Dick  goes  to  the  door,  bach,  and  stands  gazing 
out  into  the  night, —  his  back  to  the  audience.~\ 

SERGEANT  [to  Thaddeus']  Come  along,  man. 
I'll  have  to  look  at  the  upstairs.  [To  Mary.~\ 
You  sit  down  in  that  chair.  [Points  to  chair  at 
right  of  centre  table,  and  feels  for  a  sufficiently 
strong  threat.']  Don't  you  stir  or  I'll — I'll  set  fire 
to  your  house.  [To  Thaddeus.^  Go  on  ahead. 

[Thaddeus  and  tlie  Sergeant  go  upstairs.  Mary 
sinks  lifelessly  into  the  chair.  She  is  the  picture  of 
fear.  She  sits  facing  left.  Suddenly  she  leans 
forward.  She  opens  her  eyes  wide,  and  draws  her 
breath  sharply.  She  opens  her  mouth  as  though 
she  would  scream,  but  makes  no  sound.  The  North 
erner  has  opened  the  door.  He  enters  slowly  and 
cautiously,  his  gun  pointed  at  Mary.  (Dick  can 
not  see  him  because  of  the  jog  in  the  wall.)  Mary 
only  stares  in  bewilderment  at  the  Northerner,  as 
he,  with  eyes  fixed  appealingly  on  her,  opens  the 
door  to  the  cubby-hole  and  crawls  inside.^ 

DICK.    Woman ! 

MARY  [almost  with  a  cry,  thinking  that  Dick 
has  seen  the  Northerner^  Yes. 

DICK.  Have  you  got  an  apple  handy?  I'm 
starved. 

[Mary  rises  and  moves  to  the  cupboard.  The 
Sergeant  and  Thaddeus  come  downstairs.  The 

[  10  ] 


THE  CLOD 

Sergeant,  seeing  that  Mary  is  not  where  he  left 
her,  looks  about  rapidly  and  discovers  her  at  the 
cupboard.'] 

SERGEANT.  Here,  what  did  I  tell  you  I'd  do  if 
you  moved  from  that  chair? 

MARY  [terrified]  Oh,  I  didn't — I  only — he 
wanted — 

DICK.  It's  all  right,  Sergeant.  I  asked  her  to 
get  me  an  apple. 

SERGEANT.  Take  this  lantern  and  search  the 
barn. 

[Dick  takes  the  lantern  from  the  Sergeant  and 
goes  out,  back.] 

SERGEANT  [to  Thaddeus]  Come  in  here  with 
me. 

[The  Sergeant  picks  up  the  candle.  He  and 
Thaddeus  move  toward  the  door,  left.  As  though 
in  a  stupor,  Mary  starts  to  follow.] 

SERGEANT.      Sit  down ! 

[Mary  drops  into  the  chair  at  the  right  of  the 
table.  The  Sergeant  and  Thaddeus  go  into  the 
room,  left.  They  can  be  heard  moving  furniture 
about.  Mary  sees  a  pin  on  the  floor.  She  stoops, 
picks  it  up,  and  fastens  it  in  her  belt.  The  Ser 
geant  and  Thaddeus  return.] 

SERGEANT.  If  I  find  him  now  after  all  the 
trouble  you've  given  me, 'you  know  what'll  happen. 
There's  likely  to  be  two  dead  men  and  a  woman, 
instead  of  only  the  Yankee. 

DICK  [bounding  into  the  room]  Sergeant ! 

SERGEANT.     What  is  it? 


THE  CLOD 

[Dick  hurries  to  the  Sergeant  and  says  some 
thing  to  him  m  a  low  voice. ] 

SERGEANT  [satisfaction  showing  on  his  face] 
Now,  my  good  people,  how  did  that  horse  get 
here  ? 

THADDEUS.    What  horse? 

DICK.  There's  a  horse  in  the  barn  with  a  saddle 
on  his  back.  I  swear  he's  been  ridden  lately. 

THADDEUS  [amazed]  There  is? 

SERGEANT.  You  know  it.  [To  Mary]  Come, 
woman,  who  drove  that  horse  here? 

MARY  [silent  for  a  moment,  her  eyes  on  the 
•floor']  I  don't  know.  I  didn't  hear  nothin'. 

THADDEUS  [moving  toward  the  door]  Let  me  go 
an'  see. 

SERGEANT  [pushing  Thaddeus  back]  No,  you 
don't.  You  two  have  done  enough  to  justify  the 
harshest  measures.  Show  us  the  man's  hiding 
place. 

THADDEUS.  If  there's  anybody  here,  he's  come 
in  the  night  without  our  knovrin'  it.  I  tell  yuh  I 
didn't  see  anybody,  an'  she  didn't,  an — 

SERGEANT  [has  been  watching  Mary]  Where 
is  he? 

[His  tone  makes  Thaddeus  jump.  There  is  a 
pause,  during  which  Mary  seems  trying  to  com 
pose  herself.  Then  slowly  she  lifts  her  eyes  and 
looks  at  the  Sergeant. ~] 

MARY.  There  ain't  nobody  in  the  house  'cept 
us  two. 

SERGEANT  [to  Dick]  Did  you  search  all  the  out 
buildings  ? 


THE  CLOD 

DICK.  Yes.  There's  not  a  trace  of  him  except 
the  horse. 

SERGEANT  [wiping  the  perspiration  from  his 
face;  speaks  with  apparent  deliberation  at  first, 
but  becomes  very  emphatic']  He  didn't  have  much 
of  a  start  of  us,  and  I  think  he  was  wounded.  A 
farmer  down  the  road  said  he  heard  hoof-beats. 
The  man  the  other  side  of  you  heard  nothin',  and 
the  horse  is  m  your  barn,.  [Slowly  draws  his  re 
volver  and  points  it  at  Thaddeus.]  There  are 
ways  of  making  people  confess. 

THADDEUS  [covering  his  face  with  his  hands] 
For  God's  sake,  don't.  I  know  that  horse  looks 
bad,  but,  as  I  live,  I  ain't  heard  a  sound,  or  seen 
anybody.  I'd  give  the  man  up  in  a  minute  if  he 
was  here. 

SERGEANT  [lowering  his  gun]  Yes,  I  guess  you 
would.  You  wouldn't  want  me  to  hand  you  and 
your  wife  over  to  our  army  to  be  shot  down  like 
dogs. 

[Mary  shiver s.~\ 

SERGEANT  [swings  round  sharply  and  points  the 
gun  at  Mary]  Your  wife  knows  where  he's  hid. 

MARY  [breaking  out  in  irritating,  rasping  voice] 
I'm  sure  I  wish  I  did.  I'd  tell  yuh  quick  an'  git 
yuh  out  o'  here.  'Tain't  no  fun  fer  me  t'  have  yuh 
prowlin'  all  over  my  house,  trackin'  it  up  with  yer 
dirty  boots.  Yuh  ain't  got  no  right  t'  torment  me 
like  this.  Lord  knows  how  I'll  git  my  day's  work 
done,  if  I  can't  have  my  sleep  out. 

SERGEANT  [has  been  gazing  at  her  in  astonish 
ment;  lowers  his  gun]  Good  God !  Nothing  but  her 

[  13  ] 


THE  CLOD 

own  petty  existence.  [In  different  voice  to  Mary.] 
I'll  have  to  ask  you  to  get  us  some  breakfast. 
We're  famished. 

[With  relief  but  showing  some  anger,  Mary 
turns  to  the  stove.  She  lights  the  fire  and  puts 
more  coffee  in  the  pot.] 

SERGEANT.  Come,  Dick,  we  better  give  our 
poor  horses  some  water.  They're  all  tired  out.  [In 
lower  voice.]  The  man  isn't  here.  If  he  were  he 
couldn't  get  away  while  we're  in  the  yard.  [To 
Thaddeus.]  Get  us  a  pail  to  give  the  horses  some 
water  in*  [Sees  the  pails  on  the  bench.  Picks  one 
of  them  up  and  moves  toward  the  door.] 

MARY.    That  ain't  the  horses'  pail. 

SERGEANT  [to  Thaddeus]  Come  along.  You 
can  help. 

MARY  [louder]  That's  the  drinkin'  water  pail. 

SERGEANT.     That's  all  right. 

[The  Sergeant,  Thaddeus,  and  Dick, — carrying 
the  lantern,  go  out  back.  Mary  needs  more  wood 
for  the  fire,  so  she  follows  in  a  moment.  When  she 
has  disappeared,  the  Northerner  drags  himself 
from  the  cubby-hole.  Mary  returns  with  an  arm- 
ful  of  wood.] 

MARY  [sees  the  Northerner.  Shows  no  sympathy 
for  him  in  this  speech  nor  during  the  entire  scene] 
Yuh  git  back!  Them  soldiers'll  see  yuh. 

NORTHERNER.  Some  water.  Quick.  [Falls 
into  chair  at  left  of  table.]  It  was  so  hot  in  there. 

MARY  [gives  him  water  in  the  dipper]  Don't  yuh 
faint  here !  If  them  soldiers  git  yuh,  they'll  kill  me 

[  14  ] 


THE  CLOD 

an'  Thad.  Hustle  an'  git  back  in  that  cubby-hole. 
[Turns  quickly  to  the  stove. ] 

[The  Northerner  drinks  the  water.  Puts  the 
dipper  on  the  table.  Then,  summoning  all  his 
strength,  rises  and  crosses  to  Mary.  He  touches 
her  on  the  sleeve.  Mary  is  so  startled  that  she 
jumps  and  utters  a  faint  cry.~\ 

NORTHERNER.  Be  still  or  they'll  hear  you. 
How  are  you  going  to  get  me  out  of  here? 

MARY.  Yuh  git  out !  Why  did  yuh  come  here, 
a  bringin'  me  all  this  extra  work,  an'  maybe  death  ? 

NORTHERNER.  I  couldn't  go  any  farther.  My 
horse  and  I  were  ready  to  drop.  Won't  you 
help  me? 

MARY.  No,  I  won't.  I  don't  know  who  yuh  are 
or  nothin'  'bout  yuh,  'cept  that  them  men  want  t' 
ketch  yuh.  [In  a  changed  tone  of  curiosity.'} 
Did  yuh  steal  somethin'  from  'em? 

NORTHERNER.  Don't  you  understand?  Those 
men  belong  to  the  Confederacy,  and  I'm  a  North 
erner.  They've  been  chasing  me  all  day.  [Pulling 
a  bit  of  crumpled  paper  from  his  breast. ]  They 
want  this  paper.  If  they  get  it  before  tomorrow 
morning  it  will  mean  the  greatest  disaster  that's 
ever  come  to  the  Union  army. 

MARY  [with  frank  curiosity'}  Was  it  yuh  rode 
by  yesterday? 

NORTHERNER.  Don't  you  see  what  you  can  do? 
Get  me  out  of  here  and  away  from  those  men,  and 
you'll  have  done  more  than  any  soldier  could  do  for 
the  country, — for  your  country. 

MARY.     I  ain't  got  no  country.    Me  an'  Thad's 

[  15  ] 


THE  CLOD 

only  got  this  farm.     Thad's  ailin',  an'  I  do  most 
the  work,  an' — 

NORTHERNER.  The  lives  of  thirty  thousand  men 
hang  by  a  thread.  I  must  save  them.  And  you 
must  help  me ! 

MARY.  I  don't  know  nothin'  'bout  yuh,  an'  I 
don't  know  what  yer  talkin'  'bout. 

NORTHERNER.    Only  help  me  get  away. 

MARY  [angrily]  No  one  ever  helped  me  or  Thad. 
I  lift  no  finger  in  this  business.  Why  yuh  come 
here  in  the  first  place  is  beyond  me, — sneakin'  in 
our  house,  spoilin'  our  well-earned  sleep.  If  them 
soldiers  ketch  yuh,  they'll  kill  me  an'  Thad.  Maybe 
you  didn't  know  that. 

NORTHERNER.  What's  your  life  and  your  hus 
band's  compared  to  thirty  thousand?  I  haven't 
any  money  or  I'd  give  it  to  you. 

MARY.    I  don't  want  yer  money. 

NORTHERNER.     What  do  you  want? 

MARY.  I  want  yuh  t'  git  out.  I  don't  care 
what  happens  t'  yuh.  Only  git  out  o'  here. 

NORTHERNER.  I  can't  with  the  Southerners  in 
the  yard.  They'd  shoot  me  like  a  dog.  Besides, 
I've  got  to  have  my  horse. 

MARY  [with  naive  curiosity]  What  kind  o' 
lookin'  horse  is  it  ? 

NORTHERNER  [dropping  into  the  chair  at  left 
of  centre  table  in  disgust  and  despair]  Oh,  God! 
If  I'd  only  turned  in  at  the  other  farm.  I  might 
have  found  people  with  red  blood.  [Pulls  out  his 
gun  and  hopelessly  opens  the  empty  chamber.] 
[  16  ] 


THE  CLOD 

MARY  [alarmed]  What  yuh  goin'  t'  do  with  that 
gun? 

NORTHERNER.    Don't  be  afraid.    It's  not  load — 

MARY.     I'd  call  'em  if  I  wasn't — 

NORTHERNER  [leaping  to  the  wall,  left,  and 
bracing  himself  against  it']  Go  call  them  in.  Save 
your  poor  skin  and  your  husband's  if  you  can. 
Call  them  in.  You  can't  save  yourself.  [Laughs 
hysterically.]  You  can't  save  your  miserable  skin. 
'Cause  if  they  get  me,  and  don't  shoot  you,  I  will. 

MARY  [leaning  against  the  left  side  of  the  table 
for  support;  m  agony]  Oh! 

NORTHERNER.  You  see?  You've  got  to  help 
me  whether  you  want  to  or  not. 

MARY  [-feeling  absolutely  caught]  I  ain't  done 
nothin'.  I  don't  see  why  yuh  an'  them  others  come 
here  a  threatenin'  t'  shoot  me.  I  don't  want 
nothin'.  I  don't  want  t'  do  nothin'.  I  jest  want 
yuh  all  t'  git  out  o'  here  an'  leave  me  an'  Thad  t' 
go  t'  sleep.  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  t'  do.  Yuh 
got  me  in  a  corner  where  I  can't  move.  [Passes 
her  hand  back  along  the  table.  Touches  the  dip 
per  accidentally,  and  it  falls  to  the  floor.  Screams 
at  the  sound.] 

NORTHERNER  [leaping  toward  her]  Now  you've 
done  it.  They'll  be  here  in  a  minute.  You  can't 
give  me  up.  They'll  shoot  you  if  you  do.  They'll 
shoot.  [Hurries  up  the  stairs  and  disappears.] 

[Mary  stands  beside  the  table,  trembling  ter 
ribly.  The  Sergeant,  Dick,  and  Thaddeus  come 
running  in] 

SERGEANT.     What   did  you  yell   for? 


THE  CLOD 

[Mary  does  not  answer.] 

SERGEANT    [seizing  her  by   the  arm]    Answer! 

MARY.  I  knocked  the  dipper  off  the  table.  It 
scared  me. 

SERGEANT  [dropping  wearily  into  chair  at  left 
of  centre  table]  Well,  don't  drop  our  breakfast. 
Put  it  on  the  table.  We're  ready. 

MARY  [stands  looking  at  the  Sergeant]  It  ain't 
finished. 

SERGEANT  [worn  out  by  his  day's  work  and 
Mary's  stupidity,  from  now  on  absolutely  brutish] 
You've  had  time  to  cook  a  dozen  meals.  What  did 
you  do  all  the  time  we  were  in  the  yard? 

MARY.    I  didn't  do  nothin'. 

SERGEANT.  You  good-for-nothin' — .  Get  a 
move  on  and  give  us  something  fit  to  eat.  Don't 
try  to  get  rid  of  any  left-overs  on  us.  If  you  do, 
you'll  suffer  for  it. 

[Mary  stands  looking  at  him.] 

SERGEANT.  Don't  you  know  anything,  you 
brainless  farm-drudge?  Hurry,  I  said. 

[Mary  picks  up  the  dipper  and  turns  to  the 
stove.  Thaddeus  sits  in  the  chair  at  left  of  smaller 
table.] 

DICK.  What  a  night.  My  stomach's  as  hollow 
as  these  people's  heads.  [Takes  towel  which  hangs 
above  the  bench,  and  wipes  the  barrel  of  his  gun 
with  it.] 

MARY.     That's  one  of  my  best  towels. 

DICK.     Can't  help  it. 

SERGEANT.      'Tend   to   the   breakfast.      That's 
enough  for  you  to  do  at  one  time. 
[18] 


THE  CLOD 

[Dick  puts  his  gun  on  the  smaller  table,  and  sits 
at  the  right  of  the  larger.] 

SERGEANT  [quietly  to  Dick]  I  don't  see  how 
he  gave  us  the  slip. 

DICK.  He  knew  we  were  after  him,  drove  his 
horse  in  here,  and  went  on  afoot.  Clever  scheme, 
I  must  admit. 

THADDEUS  [endeavoring  to  get  them  into  con 
versation]  Have  yuh  rid  far  t'night,  Misters? 

DICK  [shortly]  Far  enough. 

THADDEUS.     Twenty  miles  or  so? 

DICK.     Perhaps. 

THADDEUS.  How  long  yuh  been  chasin'  the 
critter? 

SERGEANT.  Oh,  shut  up!  Don't  you  see  we 
don't  want  to  talk  to  you?  Take  hold  and  hurry, 
woman.  My  patience  's  at  an  end. 

[Mary  puts  a  loaf  of  bread,  some  fried  eggs, 
and  a  coffee-pot  on  the  table.] 

MARY.    There !    I  hope  yer  satisfied. 

[Dick  and  the  Sergeant  pull  their  chairs  up  and 
begin  to  eat.] 

SERGEANT.  Is  this  all  we  get?  Come,  it  won't 
do  you  any  good  to  be  stingy. 

MARY.    It's  all  I  got. 

SERGEANT.  It  isn't  a  mouthful  for  a  chickadee ! 
Give  us  some  butter. 

MARY.     There  ain't  none. 

SERGEANT.  No  butter  on  a  farm?  God,  the 
way  you  lie. 

MARY.    I — 

SERGEANT.    Shut  up ! 

[  19  ] 


THE  CLOD 

DICK.     Have  you  got  any  cider? 

SERGEANT.  Don't  ask.  She  and  the  man  prob- 
ahly  drank  themselves  stupid  on  it.  [Throws  fork 
on  floor.]  I  never  struck  such  a  place  in  my  life. 
Get  me  another  fork.  How  do  you  expect  me  to 
eat  with  that  bent  thing? 

[Mary  stoops  with  difficulty  and  picks  up  the 
fork.  Gets  another  from  the  cupboard  and  gives 
it  to  the  Sergeant.'] 

SERGEANT.  Now  give  me  some  salt.  Don't  you 
know  that  folks  eat  it  on  eggs? 

[Mary  crosses  to  the  cupboard;  mistakes  the 
pepper  for  the  salt  and  puts  it  on  the  table.~\ 

SERGEANT  [sprinkles  pepper  on  his  food]  I  said 
salt,  woman!  [Spelling.]  S-a-l-t.  Salt!  Salt! 

[Mary  gets  the  salt  and  gives  it  to  the  Sergeant. 
Almost  ready  to  drop,  she  drags  herself  to  the 
window  nearer  the  back  and  leans  against  it,  watch 
ing  the  Southerners  like  a  hunted  animal.  Thad- 
deus  is  nodding  in  the  corner.  The  Sergeant  and 
Dick  go  on  devouring  the  food.  The  former  pours 
the  coffee.  Puts  his  cup  to  his  lips,  takes  one  swal 
low;  then,  jumping  to  his  feet  and  upsetting  his 
chair  as  he  does  so,  he  hurls  his  cup  to  the  floor.] 

SERGEANT  [bellowing  and  pointing  to  the  fluid 
trickling  on  the  floor]  Have  you  tried  to  poison  us, 
you  God  damn  hag? 

[Mary  screams  and  the  faces  of  the  men  turn 
white.  It  is  the  cry  of  an  animal  goaded  beyond 
endurance.] 

MARY  [screeching]  Break  my  cup?  Call  my 
coffee  poison?  Call  me  a  hag,  will  yuh?  I'll  learn 
[  20  ] 


THE  CLOD 

yuh!  I'm  a  woman,  but  yer  drivin'  me  crazy. 
[She  has  snatched  the  gun  from  the  wall  and 
pointed  it  at  the  Sergeant.  Fires.~\ 

[The  Sergeant  -falls  to  the  -floor.  Mary  keeps 
on  screeching.  Dick  rushes  for  his  gunJ] 

THADDEUS.    Mary !     Mary ! 

MARY  [aiming  at  Dick  and  firing~\  I  ain't  a  hag. 
I'm  a  woman,  but  yer  killin'  me. 

[Dick  falls  just  as  he  reaches  his  gun.  Thad- 
deus  is  in  the  corner  with  his  hands  over  his  ears. 
The  Northerner  stands  on  the  stairs.  Mary  con 
tinues  to  pull  the  trigger  of  the  empty  gun.  The 
Northerner  is  motionless  for  a  moment;  then  he 
goes  to  Thaddeus  and  shakes  himJ] 

NORTHERNER.    Go  get  my  horse.    Quick ! 

[Thaddeus  hurries  out.  The  Northerner  turns 
to  Mary.  She  gazes  at  him  but  does  not  under 
stand  a  word  he  says.~\ 

NORTHERNER  [with  great  fervor~]  I'm  ashamed 
of  what  I  said.  The  whole  country  will  hear  of 
this,  and  you.  [He  takes  her  hand  and  presses  it 
to  his  lips;  then  turns  and  hurries  out  of  the 
house. ~\ 

[Mary  still  holds  the  gun  in  her  hand.  She 
pushes  a  strand  of  grey  hair  back  from  her  face, 
and  begins  to  pick  up  the  fragments*  of  the  broken 
cup.'] 

MARY  [in  dead,  flat  tone\  I'll  have  t'  drink  out 
the  tin  cup  now. 

[The  hoof-beats  of  the  Northerner's  horse  are 
heardJ] 

CURTAIN 
[21  ] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 


CHARACTERS 

WILLIAM  GRANT 
GILBERT  GRANT 
COURTLEIGH  VANBRUGH 
ENRIGHT 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
LEWIS  BEACH. 

First  acted  at  The  Playhouse,  Lake  Forest, 
August,  1916. 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

SCENE:  A  large,  cold,  and  formal  room  done 
in  pale  *green  with  mauve  portieres  and  upholstery. 
The  decorator  chose  furnishings  with  care  and 
taste,  but  he  neglected  the  most  important  feature: 
the  room  is  as  cheerful  as  a  mausoleum. 

At  the  back,  to  the  right,  a  row  of  windows  over 
looking  the  street.  On  the  left,  well  upstage,  a 
wide,  arched  opening  leading  to  the  hall.  Down 
stage  right  an  empty  fireplace.  Above  it  a  door 
way;  above  the  doorway,  a  screen.  Hidden  from 
view  behind  the  screen  a  small  scroll-saw.  In  the 
centre  of  the  room  stands  a  round  table;  straight- 
backed  chairs  to  left  and  right  of  it.  A  third 
chair  downstage  left,  and  a  fourth  at  the  back  near 
the  screen.  A  davenport  before  the  fireplace.  Bell- 
rope  at  back  to  the  left.  A  small  table  near  it 
which  the  butler  uses  as  a  serving  table.  Two 
heavy  candlesticks, — about  three  feet  tall,  on  either 
side  of  the  fireplace.  A  clock,  and  framed  photo 
graphs  of  Gilbert  and  the  late  Mrs.  Grant  on.  the 
mantel-piece.  On  the  centre  table  a  vase  of  Can- 
didum  lilies.  The  one  bright,  inharmonious  thing 
in  the  room  is  a  navajo  blanket  which  lies  over  the 
back  of  the  davenport. 

The  light  of  a  late,  sunless  afternoon  in  April 
comes  through  the  windows. 
[25] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

The  curtain  rises  on  an  empty  stage.  Presently 
a  youngish  man  enters  from  the  hall.  He  is  tall 
and  slender,  handsome  and  distingue.  Beggars 
never  dare  approach  him.  He  wears  a  cutaway 
and  silk  hat,  and  has  a  gardenia  for  boutonniere. 
His  eyes  immediately  discover  the  navajo.  He 
frowns;  then  moves  to  the  bell-rope  and  pulls  it. 
Coming  downstage  he  seats  himself  in  the  chair  at 
the  left  of  the  table.  He  is  obviously  much  an 
noyed  but  he  does  not  drop  his  long-practiced 
posing. 

The  butler  enters  right.  He's  sparse  and  tall; 
and  although  well  in  his  fifties,  he  has  never  ac 
quired  a  sense  of  humor.  He  has  not  expected  to 
see  the  youngish  man,  and  even  a  slight  expression 
of  surprise  crosses  his  face.  But  he  draws  himself 
up  and  immediately  becomes  a  proper  property  of 
the  house. 

THE  YOUNGISH  MAN  [pointing  to  the  navajo 
with  his  stick;  does  not  turn  his  head~\  Enright, 
who  put  that  barbaric  atrocity  there? 

ENRIGHT  [moving  to  the  navajo~\  Yes,  sir. 

THE  YOUNGISH  MAN.  Why  does  Father  insist 
on  spoiling  this  room? 

ENRIGHT  [puts  the  navajo  on  his  arm  as 
though  he  were  in  the  habit  of  taking  things  away 
at  the  young  man's  command^  I  do  my  best,  Mr. 
Gilbert. 

GILBERT.  Take  it  away.  It  absolutely  ruins 
the  effect. 

ENRIGHT.  Often  the  best  of  people  seem  to  be 
born  with  no  taste,  sir. 

[  26  ] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

GILBERT.  Wrap  it  up  and  send  it  to  one  of  the 
pseudos  in  Greenwich  Village.  It'll  be  appreciated 
there. 

ENRIGHT  [feeling  it  his  cue  to  laugh]  Excellent, 
sir.  Mr.  Grant —  [momentary  pause;  the  mention 
of  Grant,  Senior,  brings  some  thought  to  his 
mind'] — perhaps,  sir, — will  you  be  so  good  as  to 
choose  a  blanket  of  the  right  colour? 

GILBERT.  Any  blanket  would  be  out  of  place 
here. 

ENRIGHT.  Quite  right,  sir.  [Timidly']  But, 
sir,  Mr.  Grant  likes  something  to  cover  himself 
with. 

GILBERT  [showing  a  slight  interest;  up  to  this 
time  his  manner  has  been  marked  by  complete  bore 
dom]  Does  Father  nap  here? 

ENRIGHT.  Yes,  sir.  I  suppose  he  should  nap 
in  his  bed ;  but — 

GILBERT  [cutting  in]  This  isn't  a  bedroom. 

ENRIGHT.  Very  good,  sir.  [Crosses  and  lights 
the  chandelier .~] 

GILBERT.  It  may  be  necessary  to  remove  the 
davenport. 

[Enright  busies  himself  with  anything  which 
will  provide  an  excuse  -for  lingering.'] 

ENRIGHT.  Mr.  Grant  will  be  so  pleased  that 
you're  to  dine  with  him. 

GILBERT  [very  bored]  But  I'm  not. 

[Enrighfs  face  falls.] 

GILBERT.  I  trotted  in  to  tell  you  to  send  me 
round  a  few  bottles  of  Father's  burgundy.  He 
never  uses  it,  I  suppose? 

'   [87] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

ENRIGHT.  No,  sir.  He  will  be  disappointed 
that  you're  not  to  dine  with  him.  I  An  idea  comes 
to  him:  if  he  tells  Gilbert  his  trouble  the  son  will 
put  an  end  to  it.  He  speaks  with  a  meaning  sigh.] 
I  suppose  he'll  send  me  to  the  Park  for  some  one. 

GILBERT  [astounded;  even  turns  abruptly  and 
looks  at  Enright]  What? 

ENRIGHT  [very  solemnly]  Yes,  sir.  Almost 
every  night  for  three  weeks  now. 

GILBERT  [horrified]  My  father  dines  with 
tramps  ? 

ENRIGHT  [still  in  tragic  'voice]  That  night  he 
went  with  you  to  the  theatre.  Seems  something  in 
the  play  put  the  idea  in  his  head. 

GILBERT.  This  comes  of  taking  him  to  the 
theatre.  [Gilbert  will  never  take  him  again.] 

ENRIGHT  [his  tone  conveys  that  he  does  not 
understand  Grant's  distaste]  He  says  he  can't  bear 
to  dine  alone. 

GILBERT.  Tramps  off  the  street.  How  many — 
since  I  was  here  last? 

ENRIGHT  [thinking]  That  was  three  weeks  ago. 

GILBERT  [forgetting  himself  for  a  moment]  So 
long?  [Checking  himself]  How  do  you  remember? 

ENRIGHT.  You  came  to  go  over  the  accounts, 
sir. 

GILBERT.     Why,  this  is  awful ! 

ENRIGHT.     Isn't  it  a  tragedy,  sir? 

GILBERT.     I  don't  understand  him. 

ENRIGHT  [as  though  no  one  could]  No,  sir. 

GILBERT.  And  do  these— these  rotters — come 
to  the  front  door? 

[28] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

ENRIGHT.  Once  I  tried  to  bring  one  of  them  in 
at  the  service  entrance.  But  Mr.  Grant  objected. 
He  was  quite  unreasonable  about  it,  sir. 

GILBERT  [evidently  planning  to  give  his  father 
a  lecture']  I  think  I'll  stay  for  dinner  tonight. 

ENRIGHT  [relieved  and  delighted]  Oh  splendid! 

GILBERT.  No,  I  can't.  Tonight  is  Reggie 
Schofield's  bachelor  farewell. 

ENRIGHT  [giving  way  completely^  I  don't  know 
what  to  do,  sir, — butlering  to  tramps. 

GILBERT.  I'll  run  in  soon.  I  can't  have  my 
father  dining  with  tramps.  It'd  ruin  me.  You 
tell  him — 

ENRIGHT  [cutting  in]  Oh,  no.  I  couldn't,  sir. 
Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  could  you  wait? 

GILBERT.  I'm  late  now.  I've  only  time  to 
dress.  [Rises  and  moves  rather  hurriedly  toward 
the  hall.  Stops  left  lower  as:~\ 

[William  Grant  enters  from  the  hall.  He's  a 
small,  undersized  man  of  sixty-seven,  but  he  looks 
even  older  and  his  hair  is  snow-white.  His  voice 
is  light  and  just  a  bit  childish.  There  is  a  certain 
timid  embarrassment  in  his  manner.  He  wears  a 
dark  overcoat.  In  one  hand  he  holds  his  top-hat; 
in  the  other,  a  bunch  of  bright  red  tulips.  In  all,  a 
pathetic  figure;  but  he  beams  when  he  sees  Gilbert 
and  goes  eagerly  to  him  with  outstretched  hand.~] 

GRANT.  Oh  Gilbert,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you. 
How  are  you?  How  are  you? 

GILBERT.  Oh,  so  so.  I've  been  waiting  for  you 
for  some  time. 

GRANT.  I'm  so  sorry  to  have  kept  you.  But 
[  29  ] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

sit  down,  sit  down.     Enright,  take  Mr.  Gilbert's 
hat. 

GILBERT.     I'm  just  off. 

GRANT.  Oh,  no.  You  haven't  dined  with  rne  in 
twenty-one  nights. 

GILBERT.  I've  really  not  a  moment.  I  must 
see  a  sick  friend. 

GRANT.  Well,  if  you're  going  to  cheer  some 
one  up,  I'll  have  to  excuse  you.  But  do  come  soon. 
[Timidly]  It's  lonesome. 

GILBERT.     Why  don't  you  dine  at  the  Club? 

GRANT.  I  feel  out  of  place.  There  never  seems 
to  be  any  one  there  I  know. 

GILBERT.  I'll  come  soon.  There's  something  I 
must  talk  to  you  about. 

GRANT  [brightens]  What? 

GILBERT.     Don't  you  know? 

[Grant  shakes  his  head.] 

GILBERT.  I  haven't  a  moment  now.  The  hos 
pital  will  be  closed  to  visitors.  [Moves  out  into  the 
hall.]  Au  revoir. 

[Grant  stands  looking  after  him.  Enright  puts 
the  navajo  behind  a  pillow.  Crosses  to  Grant  and 
helps  him  out  of  his  coat;  takes  his  hat.  Grant 
moves  to  the  table;  takes  the  lilies  from  the  vase 
and  puts  the  tulips  in  their  place.] 

ENRIGHT  [with  a  slight  restraining  gesture] 
Ah, — the  colour,  sir. 

GRANT.     Colour?       Oh,    yes.       [Removes     the 
tulips,  puts  the  lilies  back  in  the  vase.]     Gilbert 
knows  best.     [Hands  the  tulips  to  Enright.] 
[  30  ] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

ENKIGHT.  Will  you  have  your  dinner  in  here 
tonight,  sir? 

Gii ANT.  I  think  it's  more  cheerful  than  the 
dining  room. 

ENRIGHT.     Yes,  sir. 

[Grant  sits  on  the  davenport.  Enright  puts  ihe 
tulips  on  the  small  table;  takes  coat  and  hat  into 
the  hall.  Grant  sighs.  Enright  reenters.  Grant 
speaks  immediately.] 

GRANT.  Enright,  do  you  know  what  day 
this  is? 

ENRIGHT.     No,  sir.     What,  sir? 

GRANT.     My  sixty-seventh  birthday. 

ENRIGHT.  No,  sir?  Not  really,  sir?  May  I 
congratulate? 

GRANT.  Thank  you,  Enright.  [Not  bitterly] 
One  usually  doesn't  mention  his  own  birthday,  but 
no  one  remembered,  so  I  had  to  tell. 

ENRIGHT  [apologizing  for  Gilbert]  I'm  sure, 
sir,  if  Mr.  Gilbert' d — 

GRANT  [cutting  in;  excusing  Gilbert  from  obli 
gation]  I  didn't  expect  him  to.  Why  should  chil 
dren  remember  their  parents'  birthdays?  [With  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye]  They  weren't  present  at  our 
christenings,  were  they,  Enright? 

ENRIGHT  [not  seeing  Grant's  poor  little  joke] 
Ah  no,  sir. 

[Enright  picks  up  the  tulips  and  goes  out  right. 

After  a  moment  of  doing  nothing,  and  as  though 

trying  to  brace  up,  Grant  takes  a  puzzle, — a  couple 

of  nails  bent  together,  from  his  pocket,  and  tries  to 

[31  ] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

separate  them.  Enright  enters  with  a  tray  hold 
ing  dinner  service.] 

ENRIGHT.     A  new  puzzle,  sir? 

GRANT  [separating  the  nails]  Yes.  It's  too 
easy. 

ENRIGHT  [begins  laying  the  table]  You're  so 
clever  with  them. 

GRANT.     They're  all  alike. 

ENRIGHT.  Did  you  win  at  Canfield  today,  sir, 
or  did  Canfield  beat  you? 

GRANT.  Why, — I  can't  remember.  I  guess  I've 
got  in  the  habit  of  just  laying  out  the  cards.  I 
wish  I  knew  a  new  game. 

ENRIGHT.  I'll  ask  my  mother.  She  knows  one 
she  says  Napoleon  played  to  keep  himself  from 
going  insane. 

GRANT.  Oh,  do.  [Thoughtfully;  almost 
shivers']  "From  going-^."  [Quickly]  Take  your 
mother  some  of  my  jig-saw  puzzles. 

ENRIGHT  [non-enthusiastic ally]  Thank  you,  sir. 

GRANT.  What  else  does  she  do  to  keep  herself 
busy? 

ENRIGHT.  Oh,  she  has  a  real  smart  time  living 
with  sister.  The  neighbors  are  always  dropping 
in  to  borrow  something. 

GRANT.  It  is  different  with  a  woman.  An  old 
man —  [Pauses]. 

ENRIGHT.     Shall  I  serve  dinner,  sir? 

GRANT.     I'm  not  hungry. 

ENRIGHT.  Oh,  but  you  must  eat,  sir.  Cook  gets 
so  cross. 

[Grant  rises  and  moves  to  the  table  as  though 
[  32  ] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

lie  were  performing  an  unpleasant  duty.  Enright 
holds  the  chair  at  the  right  of  the  table  for  him. 
Grant  is  about  to  sit  when  an  idea  pops  into  his 
head.  He  speaks  eagerly  and  tries  to  be  per 
suasive.^ 

GRANT.  Enright,  you  have  dinner  with  me 
tonight. 

ENRIGHT  [shaking  his  head;  lie  has  evidently 
refused  more  than  once~\  No,  sir. 

GRANT.     Just  for  tonight.    My  birthday. 

ENRIGHT.    '  I  couldn't  and  keep  my  dignity,  sir. 

[Grant  sits.  Enright  pushes  his  chair  up  to  the 
table.  He  unfolds  the  napkin  and  gives  it  to 
Grant;  goes  out.  Grant  smells  the  lilies;  shudders 
slightly.  Enright  enters.  He  is  the  perfect,  silent 
butler  now.  He  carries  a  small  tray;  puts  it  on  the 
table  near  Grant;  goes  out.  Grant  takes  the  pill 
from  the  tray,  looks  at  it  for  a  moment,  then  swal 
lows  it  and  drinks  a  few  drops  of  water.  Enright 
enters;  serves  Grant  with  an  hors  d'oeuvre;  picks 
up  the  tray  and  goes  out.  Grant  looks  at  the  hors 
d'oeuvre;  shoves  the  plate  forward  a  little.  The 
ticking  of  the  clock  is  the  only  sound.  Enright 
enters  with  a  dish  of  celery  and  olives;  puts  it  on 
the  table.  He  looks  down  at  the  hors  d'oeuvre. 
Grant  shakes  his  head.  Enright  picks  up  the  plate 
and  moves  toward  the  door.  Grant  speaks.] 

GRANT.  Do  you  remember  that  tall  man  who 
was  here? 

ENRIGHT  [his  face  shows  that  he  is  alarmed,  but 
he  speaks  quietly']  Yes,  sir. 

GRANT.  He  told  me  that  he  and  his  wife  and 
[33] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

five  children  live  together  in  two  rooms.    How  jolly 
they  must  be! 

[Enright  goes  out;  reenters  with  the  soup. 
Grant  is  looking  off  into  space.  Enright  notices 
the  chair  which  seems  to^mark  the  empty  place 
opposite  Grant;  lie  quickly  sets  it  against  the  wall; 
exit.  Enters  with  the  crackers;  leaves.  Deadly, 
deadly  silence  follows.  Grant  thinks  aloudJ] 

GRANT.     "Napoleon  from — ." 

[He  breaks  off  quickly,  frightened.  He  clinches 
his  hands  and  shakes  his  head  as  though  trying  to 
throw  off  the  mood.  But  the  silence,  the  coldness 
only  impress  themselves  upon  him  the  more.  The 
clock  marks  the  time  monotonously.  Desperately, 
Grant  picks  up  a  spoon,  starts  to  taste  the  soup. 
But  he  drops  the  spoon  and  bursts  out'] 

GRANT.  I  can't  stand  it!  I  can't.  [Rises'] 
Enright !  Enright ! 

[Enright  enters.    He  knows  what  is  to  happen.] 

GRANT.  You  must  get  me  some  one.  [He  goes 
rapidly  to  the  windows.  Already  he  feels  better. ~\ 
Look !  Quick ! 

[Enright  approaches  the  windowsJ] 

ENRIGHT.     Which  one,  sir? 

GRANT.  Any  one.  Ask  him  if  he  won't  please 
come. 

[Enright  goes  to  the  table  to  remove  the  soupJ] 

GRANT.  Never  mind.  The  man  first.  Hurry, 
hurry. 

[Enright  moves  toward  the  hall.  Grant  hurries 
up  to  himJ\ 

[34] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

GRANT.  Give  me  the  keys.  That  wine  Gilbert 
had  me  buy.  We'll  celebrate  my  birthday. 

[Enright  hands  Grant  the  keys;  goes  out  left 
distastefully  and  as  slowly  as  he  dares.  Grant 
eagerly  crosses  the  room.  As  he  passes  the  table 
he  realizes  that  his  guest  will  know  the  meal  had 
been  commenced.  Carefully,  yet  hurriedly,  folds 
his  napkin,  picks  up  the  soup-plate  and  goes  out 
right.  ^ 

Enright  enters  left  with  the  man  following. 
The  latter  is  almost  as  old  as  Grant  but  he  appears 
much  younger.  His  hair  and  full  beard  are  still 
very  dark,  without  the  least  touch  of  grey.  He  is 
tall  and  powerfully  built  but  he  drags  his  feet 
lazily.  He  suit  is  shabby  but  quite  spotless. 

Enright  loses  no  time  in  lowering  the  window 
shades .] 

ENRIGHT  [coldly  and  disdainfully']  Please  under 
stand,  he's  not  crazy. 

THE  MAN  [his  voice  is  heavy  in  sharp  contrast 
to  Grant's]  Then  why  did  you — ? 

ENRIGHT  [cutting  iri\  His  guests  disappointed 
him,  and  he's  kind-hearted,  and  thought  you  looked 
hungry. 

THE  MAN.  He  thought  right.  [Sits  left 
lower;  puts  his  felt  hat  in  the  chair,  takes  a  small 
brush  from  his  pocket,  and  begins  to  freshen  his 
suit  and  shoes.  He  w\istles  contentedly.] 

[After  a  disgusted  glance  at  the  man,  Enright 
goes  out  right  hurriedly;  returns  almost  imme 
diately  and  lays  another  place  at  table.] 

THE  MAN.     What's  my  host's  name? 
[35  ] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

ENRIGHT  [proudly]  Mr.  William  Grant. 

THE  MAN.  Bill  Grant?  [Starts;  looks  up  for 
a  moment;  then  puts  the  brush  in  his  pocket  and 
goes  on  whistling.] 

[Enright  goes  out  right  as  Grant  enters.] 

GRANT  [embarrassed;  advances  toward  his 
guest]  How  do  you  do,  sir?  I'm  so  glad  you've 
come. 

THE  MAN  [rises  and  holds  out  his  hand.  He's 
perfectly  at  his  ease,  and  seems  to  recognize 
Grant]  Exceedingly  kind  of  you  to  ask  me  to  dine 
with  you. 

GRANT  [surprised]  It's  very  good  of  you  to 
come. 

THE  MAN.  Too  bad  your  other  guests  disap 
pointed  you. 

GRANT.  I  had  no  other  guests.  I  invited  you 
because  I  wished  company. 

THE  MAN.  Oh,  I  see—  [Laughs]—  the  but 
ler— 

GRANT  [surprised]  You're  not  like  the — [Col 
lects  himself  as  he  sees  Enright  who  has  entered  and 
stands  waiting  at  the  table]  Ah,  won't  you  sit 
there?  [Motions  to  place  at  left  of  table.] 

THE  MAN.     Thank  you. 

[Enright  pushes  Grant's  chair  to  the  table. 
The  man  sits.  Enright  goes  out.  There  is  a 
pause.  The  man  waits  for  Grant  to  speak.] 

THE  MAN  [finally  making  conversation]  Splen 
did  spring,  isn't  it? 

GRANT.     Yes. 

THE  MAN.     ThinK  the  rains  are  over? 

[  36  ] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

GRANT.     I  do.    Do  you? 

[Enright  enters  with   the  soup;  serves   them; 


[The  man  begins  to  eat  eagerly.  Grant  watches 
him.] 

THE  MAN.  It's  a  long  time  since  I  had  dinner 
with  you. 

GRANT.     Dinner  with  me? 

THE  MAN.     Yes. 

GRANT.     But  —  ? 

THE  MAN.     Don't  you  recognize  me? 

GRANT.     No. 

THE  MAN.     I'm  Courtleigh  Vanbrugh. 

GRANT.  Courtleigh  Vanbrugh  —  why,  it  can't 
be! 

VANBRUGH.     Why  not? 

GRANT.     The  man  in  my  class  of  '72? 

VANBRUGH.  The  same.  Courtleigh  Varibrugh, 
poet,  philosopher,  naturalist. 

GRANT.     But  we  expected  —  [Pauses}. 

VANBRUGH.     Big  things?     I've  done  them. 

GRANT  [greatly  pleased]  Why,  I  can't  believe  — 
it  doesn't  seem  possible  —  I've  not  seen  you  in  over 
forty  years. 

VANBRUGH  [enjoying  his  soup  tremendously]  A 
long  time  for  lots  to  happen. 

GRANT.     Not  many  of  us  alive  now. 

VANBRUGH.     Suppose  not. 

[Enright  enters;  serves  the  next  course  and  the 
wine;  exit.] 

GRANT  [with  tears  in  his  eyes']  Why,  this  is  won 
derful,  —  to  dine  with  a  classmate. 
[37] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

[Vanbrugh  is  paying  more  attention  to  his  food 
than  to  Grant's  conversation.'] 

GRANT.  I  didn't  know  many  of  them  intimately 
at  college,  but  as  I  think  of  them  now,  they  seem 
like  boon  companions.  I  feel  I  know  them  better 
than  most  any  one  in  the  world. 

VANBRUGH.  You  haven't  seen  me  in  over  forty 
years. 

GRANT.     Just  think  of  that ! 

VANBRUGH.     Haven't  you  something  to  tell  me? 

GRANT.     I? 

VANBRUGH.  Yes.  You  feel  you  know  me  so 
well. 

GRANT.     About  what? 

VANBRUGH.     Yourself. 

GRANT  [slight  pause'}  Why, — I  was  married  in 
'78.  My  wife  died  eight  years  later. 

VANBRUGH  [insistently^  Tell  me  what's  brought 
you  to  this. 

GRANT.  Father  left  me  quite  a  sum  and  the 
business.  Now  Gilbert's  taken  it  over. 

VANBRUGH.     What  was  your  business  ? 

GRANT.  Wholesale  millinery.  I  wish  you  could 
have  known  my  wife.  Elise  was  such  a  wonderful 
woman. 

VANBRUGH  [almost  gruffly~\  I  want  to  know 
what's  brought  you  to  the  position  where  you  have 
to  call  people  off  the  street  to  dine  with  you. 

GRANT.     I  don't  exactly  know.     My  wife  and  I 

were  so  happy.    I  spent  all  my  time  when  I  wasn't 

working  with  her  and  the  baby.     Then  she  died, 

and  Gilbert  and  I  were  alone.     Then  he  went  to 

[38  ] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

prep  school  and  college — and,  well, — when  he  came 
back  we  didn't  seem  to  know  each  other  as  we  used 
to.  It's  strange  but  I  guess  it  always  happens. 

VANBRUGH.     Where  does  he  live? 

GRANT.  At  his  club.  You  know,  a  house  isn't 
a  home  unless  there's  a  mother  there.  When  I 
married,  I  got  out  of  the  habit  of  clubs  and  such 
things.  Devoting  all  my  time  to  my  family,  I 
lost  track  of  friends, —  and  somehow  I  couldn't 
get  started  again.  I  was  too  old.  So  I  just  live 
here  alone. 

VANBRUGH.     Why  didn't  you  marry  again? 

GRANT.  Oh,  no!  There  was  just  one  little 
woman  and  she  died  thirty  years  ago. 

\Vanbrugh  stretches  his  hand  along  the  table 
and  pats  Grant's  affectionately  as  he  might  a 
child's.] 

GRANT  I  retired  five  years  ago.  I  didn't  want 
to,  but  Gilbert  said  it  wasn't  right  for  a  man  of 
my  age  and  position  to  work.  He  said  it  didn't 
look  well.  Since  then  things  have  been  worse.  I 
haven't  anything  to  do,  and — sometimes — it  gets 
so  lonesome — that  I — well,  it  seems  I  can't  stand 
it.  Then  one  night  Gilbert  took  me  to  the  theatre. 
A  man  in  the  play  used  to  invite  people  in.  He 
wasn't  lonesome,  but — 

VANBRUGH.  Well,  I'm  not  surprised  you  do. 
[Looks  about;  shivers]  This  room  is  enough  to 
give  anyone  the  creeps. 

GRANT.  Gilbert  designed  it.  He  say  it's  quite 
correct,  and  he's  an  aesthete. 

VANBRUGH.  Aesthete  be  damned!  It's  as  cor- 
[39  ] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

rect  and  beautiful  as  a  winter  landscape.    But  who 
in  hell  wants  to  sit  in  the  snow ! 

GRANT.     I'm  so  sorry.     What  can  I  do? 

VANBRUGH  [rising]  Why,  get  some  colour  and 
life  here.  \_Calling~]  Here,  man.  [To  Grant] 
What's  your  butler's  name? 

GRANT  [bewildered]  Enright. 

VANBRUGH  [calling]  Enright!  Enright! 
[Snatches  the  lilies  from  the  vase.] 

[Enright  enters] 

VANBRUGH.  Take  these  funeral  flowers  out  of 
here.  Get  me  some  bright  ones.  [Goes  to  -fire 
place.]  Bring  some  good,  big  logs  and  build  a 
fire. 

ENRIGHT  [to  Grant]  You're  cold,  sir? 

VANBRUGH.     Yes,  in  body  and  soul. 

[Enright  goes  out  right  with  the  lilies.  Grant 
has  risen.  Vanbrugh  goes  to  the  davenport;  turns 
it  round;  picks  up  a  pillow.] 

VANBRUGH.  Baah !  [discovers  the  navajo]  Ha, 
who  let  this  in? 

GRANT  [timidly]  I  snooze  in  it. 

VANBRUGH.  Don't.  Live  in  it.  [Picks  up  the 
screen;  sees  scroll-saw.]  What  in  the  devil's  this? 

GRANT.     My  scroll-saw.    I  cut  jig-saw  puzzles. 

[Vanbrugh,  whistling  a  lively  tune,  moves  the 
screen  down  in  back  of  the  table,  making  a  sort  of 
wall  with  it,  and  fastens  the  navajo  over  the  screen. 
Grant  watches,  helpless  and  amazed.] 

VANBRUGH.     Say,  what  is  your  son?     A   col 
lector  of  melancholia  paraphernalia?     He  must  be 
like  the  people  who  voted  for  prohibition. 
[  40  ] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

[Enright  enters  with  a  basket  of  wood  and  the 
red  tulips.] 

VANBRUGH  [taking  the  flowers]  Ah,  tulips! 
Who  could  be  sad  with  tulips  near? 

[Enright  kindles  the  fire.  Vanbrugh,  still 
whistling,  gently  puts  the  flowers  in  the  vase.  He 
takes  the  candlesticks  from  the  fireplace;  puts 
them  close  to  the  table;  lights  one  candle.  Grant 
manages  to  light  the  second.  The  flames  of  the 
fire  spring  up.  Vanbrugh  turns  out  the  electric 
lights.  The  table,  with  the  navajo  screen  in  back 
of  ity  looks  as  though  it  were  set  in  a  cozy  little 
dining  room.] 

VANBRUGH.  Now,  Bill  Grant,  let's  sit  down. 
And,  man,  bring  on  the  next  course  and  another 
bottle. 

[Enright  goes  out.  Grant  and  Vanbrugh  sit. 
The  latter  drains  his  glass.] 

GRANT.     Isn't  it  cozy? 

VANBRUGH.  More  like.  Excellent  burgundy, 
Bill,  excellent. 

[Enright  enters  with  the  next  course  and  a 
second  bottle.  Grant's  face  beams;  he  begins  to 
eat.  Vanbrugh  continues.  Enright  goes  out.] 

VANBRUGH.  Do  you  remember  the  night  of  our 
freshman  dinner? 

[Both  laugh  heartily.] 

VANBRUGH.  Will  you  ever  forget  Tom  Jordan, 
drunk  as  a  lord,  swearing  that  every  one  was  his 
brother?  And  'member  how  he  looked  when  he 
came  to  the  Chinaman? 

[Again  they  laugh.] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

GRANT.  And  Skee  Williams  doing  a  pas  seul 
on  the  end  of  the  table.  I  can  see  his  green  shirt 
to  this  day. 

[They  are  in  the  best  of  humor.~\ 

VANBRTJGH.  And  Dickie  Leonard, — that  was 
the  night  we  found  out  he  could  sing  when  pickled. 

[Vanbrugh  begins  to  sing  For  He's  a  Jolly 
Good  Fellow.  Grant  joins  in.  They  both  rise. 
There's  nothing  left  of  their  singing  voices,  which 
break  and  flat  frequently,  but  they  manage  to 
carry  the  song  through  to  the  end.  The  effect  is 
pathos,  not  burlesque.  When  they  finish  both  are 
breathless.  They  sit.  Vanbrugh  empties  his 
glassJ] 

GRANT.  Oh  dear,  such  good  times.  But  so,  so 
long  ago. 

VANBRUGH.  It  was  only  the  beginning  of  my 
good  times. 

GRANT.     Won't  you  tell  me  about  yourself? 

VANBRUGH.     You  want  to  know  how  I  live  ? 

GRANT.     Please. 

VANBRUGH.  Well,  perhaps  you  better.  My 
life's  been  so  different  from  yours.  I  know  how  to 
live.  [Drains  glassJ]  When  I  got  my  degree,  I 
went  to  work  in  a  publishing  house.  For  two 
years  I  led  the  life  of  a  slave.  Drudging,  sweat 
ing,  nothing  but  grind.  I  couldn't  even  go  out  at 
night  and  enj  oy  myself :  I'd  always  be  thinking  of 
getting  up  to  the  grind  in  the  morning.  I  said  to 
myself :  "If  I  ever  eret  out  of  here,  I'll  know  what 
to  do."  Well,  my  luck  came:  the  Old  Man  died 
and  left  me  about  five  hundred  a  year.  The  day 
[  42] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

I  got  that  bit  of  news  the  sun  dawned  for  me.  I 
hadn't  seen  it  for  two  years.  I  threw  up  my  job 
on  the  spot.  "No  more  work ;  now  I'll  live,"  said  I. 
And  I  meant  it.  God  never  intended  us  to  work. 
If  He  had,  why  did  He  give  us  flowers  and  trees, 
and  shady  nooks  and  pattering  streams?  He 
meant  us  to  live;  and  you  can't  really  live  and 
work.  [Fills  his  glass  and  drains  it.~\ 

GRANT  [filed  with  amazement  and  inter est~\  But 
what  have  you  done  ? 

VANBRUGH.  I  haven't  done  a  stroke  of  work 
since.  I've  lived,  I  tell  you.  Oh,  I'm  what  the 
Ignorant  would  call  a  tramp.  I  walk  about,  and 
spend  my  days  in  the  parks,  where  I  can  see  the 
children  playing,  and  the  birds  singing  and  mat 
ing,  and  the  flowers  shoot  forth  and  blossom  in  all 
their  loveliness.  [Confidentially^  You  know,  Bill, 
I  sometimes  compare  myself  to  a  flower.  When  I 
worked  I  was  in  the  clay.  Then  I  sprang  forth 
into  God's  world. 

GRANT.  Well,  well!  But  where  do  you  live? 
Where's  your  home? 

VANBRUGH.     My  home  is  in  the  sunshine. 

GRANT.     But  where  do  you  sleep? 

VANBRUGH.     Wherever  it's  handy. 

GRANT.  I  remember  at  college  you  never  kept 
a  room  of  your  own. 

VANBRUGH.  What  was  the  use  of  wasting 
money?  Everyone  had  an  extra  couch.  I  used  to 
go  the  rounds. 

GRANT.     And  now,  in  the  winter? 

VANBRUGH.     I  go  south. 
[43  ] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

GRANT.    But  you're  getting  old. 

VANBRUGH.     In  years,  perhaps. 

GRANT.  You  don't  sleep  out  of  doors  this  time 
of  year,  do  you? 

VANBRUGH.     Unless  it  turns  cold. 

GRANT  [shaking  his  head]  I'm  afraid  I  couldn't 
stand  it. 

VANBRUGH.     Oh,  yes  you  could. 

GRANT  [musing]  Sleeping  on  park  benches. 
[His  face  lights  up]  Courtleigh,  you're  all  alone. 
So'm  I.  Come  and  live  with  me. 

[Vanbrugh  only  raises  his  head  a  trifle] 

GRANT.     Yes,  yes,  do.     I've  lots  of  room. 

VANBRUGH.     Too  much. 

GRANT  [eagerly]  You  can  go  to  the  parks  in  the 
daytime.  We'll  travel.  We'll  go  to  Europe  and 
South  America, — around  the  world  if  you  wish. 

[Vanbrugh  is  thinking] 

GRANT.  We'll  pass  the  last  of  our  days  to 
gether.  You'll  have  no  worry  about  money,  and 
I'll  always  have  some  one  to  talk  to.  We'll  get 
another  house  if  you  don't  like  this  one, — nearer 
the  Park. 

VANBRUGH.     No,  I  couldn't. 

GRANT.     You  haven't  a  wife? 

VANBRUGH.  No.  There's  no  use  in  a  man  mar 
rying  unless  he  wants  some  one  to  look  after  his 
house.  I  never  did. 

GRANT.  But  you  need  a  home.  Oh  come,  just 
try  staying  here  for  a  while. 

VANBRUGH.     No,  thanks,  old  man. 

GRANT.     You  can  leave  if  you  get  tired  of  it. 
[  44  ] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

VANBRUGH.     It's  impossible. 

GRANT.     Why? 

VANBRUGH.     I  couldn't  stand  the  restraint. 

GRANT.     There  wouldn't  be  any. 

VANBRUGH.  Yes,  there  would.  I'd  be  tied 
down. 

[Grant  starts  to  speak.'] 

VANBRUGH.  Yes,  I  would.  I'd  have  to  show 
up.  I'd  lose  my  liberty.  Mighty  nice  of  you, 
Bill,  but  I  prefer  my  own  life.  [Drinks.] 

GRANT  [keenly  disappointed]  You'd  have  been 
such  a  comfort. 

VANBRUGH.     You  won't  try  it  with  me  ? 

GRANT.     What? 

VANBRUGH.     Come  along  with  me. 

GRANT.  Oh  I — [laughing  very  slightly  and 
timidly]  I  couldn't. 

VANBRUGH.  Of  course,  you  could.  It'd  be  a 
damn  fine  thing  for  you. 

GRANT.     But  I — 

VANBRUGH  [fascinatingly;  leaning  over  the 
table]  Why,  you'd  love  it, — it's  just  like  that  book 
Lavengro.  All  joy  and  sunshine.  You're  never 
lonesome,  because  there  are  always  people  about 
to  talk  to.  People  who  have  lived  and  have  a  story 
to  tell, — stories  like  Arabian  Nights.  Sunshine 
and  clear  air,  moonlight  and  still  waters,  golden 
sunsets  and  singing  birds. 

GRANT.     I  couldn't  leave  my  son. 

VANBRUGH.  Shucks!  Don't  you  see  that  he's 
left  you? 

GRANT.     Don't  say  that. 
{  45  ] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

VANBRUGH.     Sorry,  Bill,  but  it's  the  truth. 

GRANT.     It  was  too  quiet  for  him  here. 

VANBRUGH.  And  so  it  is  for  you.  Come  along. 
This  is  the  beginning  of  summer.  Make  it  the 
beginning  of  your  summer. 

GRANT.     You  think  I  could? 

VANBRUGH.  Why,  certainly.  Of  course  you 
understand  it  won't  be  any  gain  to  me.  You'll  be 
more  or  less  a  drag  on  my  hands.  But  I  don't 
want  to  be  selfish.  And  I  always  like  to  help 
people.  I'll  take  you  out  and  show  you  the  real 
glories  of  this  world, — no  worries,  no  cares,  no 
loneliness.  Why,  if  you  don't  come  with  me  you'll 
just  go  on  living  here  till  you  die. 

[Grant  shivers.] 

VANBRUGH.  My  life's  the  thing  for  you.  It 
couldn't  be  worse  than  what  you're  doing  now. 
Golden  sunsets  and  singing  birds.  [Leaning  way 
over  the  table]  Will  you  come? 

[A  brief  pause.  Then  Grant  speaks  hurriedly, 
reaching  desperately  for  the  one  way  which  will  end 
his  present  situation.'] 

GRANT  [with  something  like  terror  in  his  voice] 
Yes,  Courtleigh,  I'll  come. 

VANBRUGH  [leaning  back]  That's  the  stuff.  I 
wasn't  sure  you  had  it  in  you.  [Holding  up  his 
glass]  To  the  new  life. 

[They  drink.   Vanbrugh  pulls  out  his  IngersolL] 

VANBRUGH.  It's  getting  late.  Time  we  were 
off. 

GRANT.     Sha'n't  we  wait  until  morning? 
[  46] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

VANBRUGH.  I'd  have  the  nightmare  if  I  slept 
in  this  house. 

GRANT.  I'll  do  as  you  say.  [Rises,  crosses  to 
bell-rope  and  pulls  it.~] 

VANBRUGH.  Better  put  some  money  in  your 
sock. 

GRANT.     I  always  carry  my  check-book. 

VANBRUGH.     Cash's  better.     Checks  are  difficult. 

[Enright  enters.'] 

GRANT  [excitedly']  My  overcoat,  Enright. 

ENRIGHT.     You're  going  out,  sir? 

VANBRUGH  [the  effect  of  the  wine  becoming  even 
wore  evident,  but  Grant,  in  his  excitement,  does  not 
notice  it  until  later]  He  doesn't  wear  his  overcoat 
in  the  house,  does  he? 

[Enrjght  goes  into  the  hall.  Grant  moves  to  the 
fireplace;  looks  up  at  his  wife's  photograph  as 
though  she  were  giving  her  approval.  Vanbrugh 
selects  a  tulip  for  his  button-hole.] 

VANBRUGH.  Always  did  fancy  red.  The  colour 
of  life  blood. 

[Enright  enters  with  Grant's  coat  and  silk  hat.] 

VANBRUGH.  Not  that  hat,  Bill.  It's  too  la- 
di-da. 

GRANT.  A  derby,  Enright.  And  pack  a  small 
bag. 

VANBRUGH.  Good  Lord,  no  bag.  Toothbrush. 
Too  much  to  carry. 

ENRIGHT.      Shall  I  call  a  taxi,  sir? 

GRANT  [undecided]  Why — 

VANBRUGH.     We're  going  to  walk ! 

[Enright  starts;  puts  coat  and  hat  on  chair, 
[47  ] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

right  upper;  hurriedly  goes  out  right.  Vanbrugh 
still  sits,  soporifically,  at  the  table;  he  fills  his  glass 
and  drinks.  Grant  is  too  excited  to  be  much  sur 
prised  by  Enright's  hurried  exit  before  helping 
him  with  his  coat;  he  gets  into  it  himself  as  Van-* 
brugh  sings.'] 

VANBRUGH  [singing] 

"The  noble  Duke  of  York, 

He  had  ten  thousand  men, 
He  led  them  up  to  the  top  of  the  hill, 
And  he  led  them  down  again." 

GRANT  [enraptured]  Oh,  Courtleigh,  never  to  be 
alone  again. 

[Enright  enters,  right.] 

ENRIGHT  [lying,  haltingly]  Beg  pardon,  sir,  but 
Mr.  Gilbert  just  'phoned — he — said  he'd  drop  in 
tonight — .  He — he  suddenly  remembered  your 
birthday,  sir. 

[Grant  smiles  pitifully.  Enright  watches  him 
closely.] 

VANBRUGH  [drunk]  I  never  could  stand  it  to 
work.  "No,  no,"  I  said,  "I  never  was  meant  for 
work."  Always  hated  work.  Too  damn  much 
trouble.  [Laughs.]  Bill,  I  used  to  let  the  rooms 
where  I  was  staying  at  college  grow  cold  rather 
than  mend  the  fire. 

[Grant  starts  to  take  off  his  overcoat.  Enright 
hurries  to  help  him.] 

VANBRUGH.  Honest  to  God,  I  did.  [Laughs; 
rises, — is  not  too  steady  on  his  feet.]  Bill,  maybe 
we'll  go  to  Af-ri-ca.  Always  wanted  to  go  to 
[48  ] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

Af-ri-ca,  and  just  reach  up  and  grab  a  banana 
when  I  got  hungry. 

[Grant  drops  into  the  chair  at  right  of  table.] 

VANBRUGH.  And  hear  the  birds  sing,  lovely 
birds,  green  birds  and  red  birds.  What  say,  Bill, 
shall  we  go  to  Af-ri-ca? 

GRANT.     I  guess  not,  Courtleigh. 

[Much  relieved,  Enright  goes  out  right  with  the 
coat  and  hat  on  his  arm.'] 

VANBRUGH.  Don't  want  to  go  to  Af-ri-ca?  All 
right.  I  don't  care.  Always  agreeable.  But  come 
along.  Get  a  move  on.  Golden  sunsets  and  sing 
ing  birds.  [Moves  toward  chair,  left-lower.] 

GRANT  [slowly']  I  think  I  won't  go,  Courtleigh. 

VANBRUGH  [stops']  Not  go?    Why  not  go? 

GRANT.     No.    I  can't  leave. 

VANBRUGH.  All  right.  Guess  I'll  move  along. 
Too  weak.  You'd  been  a  nuisance.  I  wouldn't  a 
had  my  liberty.  [Reaching  for  his  hat.]  But 
God,  you'll  die  here.  [Moves  toward  Grant] 
'Night,  Bill. 

GRANT  [rises;  crosses  to  Vanbrugh~\  Courtleigh, 
there  aren't  many  of  us  old  ones  left  now.  If  ever 
I  can  help  you,  let  me  know.  Do  you  understand? 

VANBRUGH.     Sure  understand. 

GRANT.     I  mean  it. 

[Vanbrugh  is  silent.] 

GRANT.     Is  there  something  now? 

VANBRUGH.     Well — 

GRANT.     What  is  it? 

VANBRUGH.  Got  devilish  thirsty  one  night. 
Met  a  bootlegger. 

[  49  ] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

[Grant  pulls  out  his  wallet;  starts  to  take 
money  from  it.] 

VANBRUGH.  If  you  don't  mind, — 'course  you 
understand  I  shouldn't  have  offered  if  you  hadn't 
asked, — you  might — 

[Grant  gives  him  several  bills.'] 

VANBRUGH.  You're  too  good.  That's  trouble 
with  you.  [Puts  the  money  in  his  pocket.]  Damn 
prohibition ! 

GRANT  [now  seems  to  notice  Vanbrugh's  condi 
tion  for  the  first  time;  stretches  out  his  hand  as 
though  to  steady  him]  You  better  stay  all  night. 

VANBRUGH  [taking  Grants  hand]  No,  thanks. 
Don't  like  nightmare. 

GRANT.     Sha'n't  I  call  a  taxi? 

VANBRUGH  [whispering  in  Grants  ear]  Need  a 
walk. 

[Vanbrugh  moves  into  the  hall.  Grant  follows 
him.] 

VANBRUGH.  Thanks  for  a  fine  evening.  Fine 
dinner.  I'll  come  again.  Great  burgundy,  Bill. 
[His  voice  grows  fainter  as  he  trails  off  into  the 
night.]  Best  I  ever  had.  Goodnight.  Pleasant 
dreams.  Green  birds  and  red  birds — 

GRANT  [calling  after  him]  Goodnight,  Court- 
leigh. 

[Enright  enters  rather  timidly  from  the  right; 
starts  to  put  the  room  in  order.  Grant  comes  from 
the  hall;  for  a  moment  he  stands  looking  about; 
then  he  notices  Enright.] 

GRANT.     Oh,  you  go  to  bed,  Enright.     [Hands 
Enright  the  tulips]  I'll  wait  up  for  Mr.  Gilbert, 
f  50  ] 


A  GUEST  FOR  DINNER 

ENRIGHT.    But,  sir, — he  might  be  detained,  sir. 

GIIANT.  Oh,  no.  He'll  come,  [He  goes  to  the 
fireplace,  looks  up  at  Gilbert's  photograph,  smiles 
and  shakes  his  head  with  pleasure.] 

ENRIGHT.     Anything  I  can  do  for  you,  sir? 

GRANT.  No,  thanks.  [Sits  on  the  davenport] 
Goodnight. 

ENRIGHT.  Goodnight,  sir.  [Moves  toward 
door,  right.~\ 

GRANT.  Oh,  Enright  do  ask  your  mother 
about  that  game  Napoleon  played. 

ENRIGHT.     Certainly,  sir.     [Exit.'] 

[Grant  sits  waiting  for  Gilbert.  The  stage 
grows  dark.  The  clock  strikes  twelve.  In  a 
moment  the  stage  is  lighted  a  gam.  Grant  lias 
•fallen  asleep.  The  candles  have  nearly  burned  out. 
Grant  wakes  with  a  start.  He  looks  at  his  watch; 
compares  it  with  the  clock.  Rises.  He  stands  look 
ing  toward  Gilbert's  photograph  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  turns,  moves  to  the  table,  and  blows  out 
the  candles.  The  light  in  the  hall  shines  into  the 
room.  Grant  goes  slowly  into  the  hall.  He  is 
heard  climbing  the  stairs. 

CURTAIN 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

A  FARCE 


CHARACTERS 

HONORE  LAZENBY-BOMMARITO 

RlCCARDO  BOMMARITO 

CLARA 

THE  PHOTOGRAPHER 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 
I/EWIS  BEACH. 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

SCENE:  A  gaudily  furnished  room  in  a  New 
York  apartment  house.  One  enters  the  hall  through 
a  door  upstage  left.  Below  the  door  a  davenport; 
in  back  of  the  davenport  a  small  table  holding  a 
lamp.  At  the  back,  to  the  right,  a  row  of  windows 
and  a  window-box  of  cyclamen.  A  door,  leading  to 
Riccardo's  study,  left  back.  Between  this  door 
and  the  windows  a  Victrola.  Upstage  left,  a  third 
door.  Madame9s  grand  piano  is  at  the  left  of  the 
room,  so  placed  that  the  key-board  cannot  be  seen 
by  the  audience.  A  small,  low  table  in  the  centre  of 
the  room,  and  a  console  table  downstage  left.  A 
chair  to  the  right  of  the  centre  table,  one  near  the 
windows,  and  a  third  in  the  curve  of  the  piano. 
Photographs  of  musical  celebrities  adorn  the  walls. 
Bric-a-brac  wherever  there  is  room  for  it. 

(  When  the  curtain  rises,  Honor *e,  wearing  a  very 
elaborate  negligee,  is  seated  before  a  breakfast 
tray.  She  is  a  tall  and  distinguished  looking  Amer 
ican  of  about  thirty-five  years  of  age.  Her  low 
eye-brows  give  her  face  a  frowning  expression,  and 
she  appears  to  be  cold  and  austere.  But  she  pos 
sesses  a  great  deal  of  magnetism.  In  an  adjoining 
room,  Riccardo  is  singing  the  Addio  alia  madre 
from  Cavalleria  Rusticana.  Honore  is  quite  in 
different  to  his  singing.  She  has  finished  her  break- 
[55  ] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

fast  and  is  dreamily  smoking  a  long  Russian 
cigarette.  A  heap  of  letters  lie  on  the  table  beside 
the  tray. 

Almost  immediately  her  maid,  Clara,  bursts  into 
the  room.  She  carries  a  newspaper.) 

CLARA  [excitedly]  Oh,  Madame,  did  you  see 
what  the  paper  says  of  Signor? 

Ho  NO  RE  [suddenly  very  alert]  Quick !  The  re 
view  of  my  recital. 

CLARA.     I  haven't  seen  it  yet. 

HONORE.     Beast ! 

CLARA  [reading]  "Signor  Bommarito  was 
superb.  For  once  we  saw  a  Cavaradossi  for  whom 
Tosca  might  truly  have  committed  murder.  And 
he  sang — " 

HONORE.  Stop!  Find  my  notice.  [Snatches 
the  paper  from  Clara.] 

CLARA  [thrilled]  Like  a  god!  Oh,  Signor  is 
such  a  success.  Even  Caruso — 

HONORE.     I  can't  find  my  criticism. 

CLARA.     Shall  I? 

[Honore  throws  the  paper  at  Clara;  paces  back 
and  forth.] 

HONORE.     Quick !  Or  I'll  die  of  heart- failure. 

CLARA.     I  find  nothing,  Madame. 

HONORE.  You  dare  to  say  that  the  great 
Lazenby  played  last  night  and  the  filthy  paper 
doesn't  give  her  a  column?  L'ame  noire. 

CLARA.  The  war,  Madame,  takes  so  much 
space. 

HONORE.  The  war?  "What  is  the  war? 
Lazenby  played  last  night  and  there  is  no  notice. 

[  56  ] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

[Turns  and  faces  door  leading  to  room  in  which 
Riccardo  is  singing]  Stop  it,  stop  it ! 

CLARA.     Ah,  here  it  is. 

HONORE  [turning}  Trickster.  You  would  have 
me  die.  [£££$]  Well  read,  why  don't  you  read  ? 

CLARA  [reading]  "Honore  Lazenby-Bommarito, 
wife  of  Ricoardo  Bommarito — " 

HONORE  [explodes]  Oh!  It  writes  of  me  so? 
Huh!  They  mean  Riccardo  is  the  husband  of 
Honore  Lazenby. 

CLARA.     But  that's  the  same  thing,  Madame. 

HONORE.     It  is  not! 

CLARA  [reading]  "The  house  was  not  as  large 
as  it  should  have  been." 

HONORE.  Oh!  How  dare  he  notice  that?  If 
he  did  how  dare  he  print  it? 

CLARA.     Shall  I  read  any  more? 

HONORE.     Of  course,  you  fool. 

CLARA  [reading]  "Honore  Lazenby-Bom — Bom 
— ahem — gave  one  of  her  charming  piano  recitals 
in  Carnegie  Hall  last  evening." 

HONORE.  "Charming."  Too  mild  a  word. 
"Epoch-making"  were  better. 

CLARA  [reading]  "Her  program  included  com 
positions  by  Schoenberg,  Stravinsky,  Ornstein, 
Debussy — " 

HONORE.  I  know  what  I  played, — only  the 
moderns.  Read  on. 

CLARA.     But  that's  all  there  is. 

HONORE.     I'll  slap  you. 

CLARA  [drawing  back]  It's  true. 

HONORE  [rises  with  queenly  dignity]  What? 
[  57] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

CLARA.  It  does  not  tell  how  you  played;  only 
what  you  played. 

[Furiously  Honor e  grabs  the  paper  and  reads. 
Riccardo  begins  the  Siciliana.  Clara  is  imme 
diately  enraptured.~\ 

HONORE.  How  dare  you  bring  this  paper  into 
the  house? 

[Looks  up;  notices  Clara's  expression."} 

CLARA.     Sh!     He's  singing  divinely. 

HONORE.     You  "sh"  me? 

[With  an  exclamation,  Honore  crumples  the 
paper  and  flings  it  across  the  room,  rushes  to  the 
piano  and  wildly  pounds  out  Paderew  ski's  Pol 
onaise  Militaire,  almost  drowning  Riccardo's  'voice. 
Clara  covers  her  ears  with  her  hands.  Truly  the 
duet  is  most  unpleasant.  Honore  listens  with  one 
ear,  expecting  that  Riccardo  will  stop  immediately. 
But  he  sings  on.  Clara  is  ready  to  weep;  she  picks 
up  the  paper  and  smoothes  it.  Failing  to  stop 
Riccardo,  Honore  rises.  She's  even  more  angry 
than  when  she  sat  downj] 

HONORE.  What  are  you  doing  with  that  paper, 
bete  noire? 

CLARA  [timidly']  I  thought  Signer  would  like  to 
see  it. 

HONORE.  Mon  Dieu !  Signor !  Signor !  Al 
ways  Signor.  No  one  thinks  of  me.  [She  appears 
to  be  about  to  weep.~\ 

CLARA  [puts  paper  on  table"]  Shall  I  get  the 
rest  of  the  morning  papers? 

HONORE  [now  far  from  tears']  I  wouldn't  look 
at  another  for  Paderewski's  scalp. 
[  58] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

[Honore  goes  to  the  Victrola,  finds  a  record,  and 
starts  the  machine.  The  record  is  Caruso's  sing 
ing  of  the  Siciliana.  Like  a  round  is  the  duet  by 
Caruso  and  Riccardo.  Clara  is  aghast  when  she 
realizes  what  Honore  has  done;  she  picks  up  the 
breakfast  tray  and  flees.  Honore  takes  the  letters, 
sits,  and  feigns  to  read.  But  she  is  listening  in 
tently,  expecting  Riccardo  to  stop  singing  im 
mediately.  She  hasn't  long  to  wait.  He  enters, 
from  the  back,  m  a  terrible  rage;  rushes  to  the 
Victrola  and  stops  it.  He  is  a  tall,  beautifully 
built  animal  in  his  early  thirties,  with  little  strength 
or  intelligence  showing  in  his  face. 

RICCARDO.  You — you —  [pauses,  catches  his 
breath] — you  'ave  insult  me! 

[Pretending  to  pay  no  heed  to  him,  Honore  hums 
the  Siciliana.] 

RICCARDO.     You  play  det  box  ven  I  re'earse. 

HONORE.  Just  a  little  coaching  from  a  real 
tenor. 

RICCARDO.  Real  tenor!  [Laughs  artificially] 
Dio  mio!  [Tragically]  You  >are  my  vife  an'  you 
treat  me  so. 

[Honore  rises  as  though  bored,  sits  at  the  piano 
and  plays  Busoni's  transcription  of  Bach's  choral, 
Rejoice,  Beloved  Christians.] 

RICCARDO  [almost  in  tears]  Last  night  ven  I 
leave  opera-'ouse  I  learn  dat  I  mus'  seeng  again 
tonight, — in  Cavalleria,  an'  I  'ave  not  seeng  Tur- 
ridu  in  vone  year.  [Wildly]  I  tell  you  I  must 
re'earse — you — you  make  me  vild.  Stop!  Stop! 
[  59  ] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

\Honore  plays  on.  Riccardo  rushes  to  the  piano 
and  closes  the  key-board.  Honore  rises.~\ 

HONORE.     You  stop  me,  me  the  great  Lazenby  ? 

RICCARDO.  O  Dio!  It  is  all  right  for  you  to 
make  stop  to  me  seenging,  but  I  must  leesten  to 
you  pound  all  day.  Are  you  crazy  dat  you  no 
on'erstan'  vat  I  am?  Last  night  all  de  vomens 
stan'  on  feets  ven  I  feenish  E  lucevan  le  stelle. 
Today  my  vife  she  drown  my  voice.  Santa 
Madonna!  Can  you  say  nodings? 

HONORE.     I  can't  waste  my  strength. 

RICCARDO  [blazing~\  You  must  save  it  to  pound, 
pound  dat  damn  piano.  Last  night,  I  ready  to 
die, — so  perfect.  Even  dos  cute  leetle  ballerinas — 

HONORE.  Aha!  I  suspected  as  much.  Un 
faithful  behind  my  back. 

RICCARDO.     Dey  vorship  artist  in  me. 

HONORE.  I  should  not  have  allowed  you  to  sing 
the  same  night  I  was  playing.  I  should  have  been 
back-stage  to  watch  you.  I  knew  things  would  go 
wrong  if  ever  I  wasn't  there  when  you  sang. 

RICCARDO.  Not  nodings  vent  vrong.  Last 
night  I  'ad  my  greatest  success. 

HONORE  {with  contempt^  Carrying  on  with  that 
red-headed  member  of  the  corp  de  ballet. 

RICCARDO.  She  vas  cute  last  night.  In  Act  1 
she  vas  acolyte.  Dio,  vat  a  shape ! 

HONORE.  And  you  tell  me  that  right  to  my 
face  ? 

RICCARDO.     I  admire  only  as  artist. 

HONORE.  Never  again  shall  you  sing  when  I 
am  not  there. 

[60  ] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

RICCARDO.  You  make  vane  gran'  meestake. 
Nevare  again  you  come  back-stage  ven  I  seeng. 
It  is  arranged. 

HONORE.     What? 

RICCARDO.  De  door-man  'e  vas  given  'is  orders : 
Madame  Bommarito  vill  not  be  admitted,  by  order 
de  impresario. 

HONORE.  I  shall  see  the  impresario  myself 
this  morning. 

RICCARDO  [frightened]  No,  no. 

HONORE.  The  order,  if  there  is  an  order,  shall 
be  revoked. 

RICCARDO.  I  vill  not  let  you  go  to  'im.  It  is 
my  Christian  duty. 

HONORE.  Two  years  ago  you  were  begging  me 
hourly  to  see  him,  to  persuade  him  to  give  you  a 
chance. 

RICCARDO.  Dat  vas  in  dem  days  past.  Now  I 
am  de  great  tenor.  You  vill  drive  me  insane ! 

HONORE.     You  must  be  put  in  your  place. 

RICCARDO.  O,  O.  An'  I  'ave  got  to  seeng  to 
night.  [Begins  to  hum  the  Siciliana.] 

[Honore  moves  toward  the  piano.] 

RICCARDO.  Don't  you  dare  play.  [Hurries  to 
the  piano  and  sits  on  the  key-board  so  she  mayn't.] 

[Honor e  rings  the  bell.] 

RICCARDO.    Vat  you  do? 

HONORE.     I'm  going  out. 

RICCARDO.  Bene!  Den  I  can  practice. 
[Alarmed]  Don't  you  go  near  opera-'ouse. 

[Clara  enters.] 

[  61  ] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

HONORE.  I  wish  to  dress.  My  most  becoming 
suit. 

RICCARDO.     You  are  not  to  go  see  'im! 

[Honor e  moves,  left.] 

CLARA.  Oh,  Signor,  did  you  see  your  wonder 
ful  notice  this  morning? 

RICCARDO  [completely  -forgetting  Honore~\  No. 
Ver  is  'e? 

[Clara  runs  to  the  table,  gets  paper,  gives  it  to 
RiccardoJ] 

CLARA.     It's  the  finest  write-up  you've  had  yet. 

[Riccardo  takes  the  paper  and  reads.  He  is 
delighted.] 

CLARA.  And  how  you  sang !  I  was  in  the  gal 
lery.  Oh,  Signor,  when  you  stood  there  in  the 
second  act,  so  big,  so  brave,  defying  that  terrible 
Scarpio,  I  wanted  to  fall  at  your  feet. 

RICCARDO.     Si,  Chiara,  at  my  feet. 

HONORE  [explodes}  You,  you — lied  to  me. 

CLARA  [frightened]  Oh,  Madame,  I  forgot  you 
were  here. 

HONORE.  You  deserted  me.  When  I  went  to 
rny  dressing-room  you  were  not  there  to  powder 
my  back. 

CLARA.     I — I — 

HONORE.  You  told  me  you  had  a  fever.  And 
you  went  off  to  hear  my  beastly  husband  sing. 
Oh,  why  did  I  ever  marry  a  tenor? 

RICCARDO.  Chiara,  it  is  bee-eautiful.  [Kisses 
paper."]  Vat  'e  says:  "Nevare  'ave  ve  'card  E 
lucevan  le  stelle  more  bee-eautifully  sung."  An' 
[62  ] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

Chiara,  Chiar-a,   {takes  her  hands  and  whirls  her 
round'}  Caruso  sang  E  lucevan  le  stelle  last  veek. 

HONORE.     How  much  did  that  notice  cost  you? 

RICCARDO.  I  pay  for  it  vid  my  blood.  From 
my  'eart  I  seeng. 

CLARA.     And  tonight  you  sing  Turridu? 

RICCARDO.  Si,  lee  tie  Chiara.  [Suddenly  very 
matter  of  fact']  My  God,  I  must  practice. 

CLARA.  Oh,  Signor,  it's — grand.  If  only  the 
paper  hadn't  neglected  Madame. 

HONORE.     Sh ! 

RICCARDO.     Neglected? 

CLARA.  I  don't  think  the  man  ever  went  to  the 
recital. 

[Riccardo  is  looking  through  the  paper.  Honore 
grabs  Clara  by  the  skirt  and  is  pulling  her,  left.] 

RICCARDO  [bursting  into  laughter}  "Small 
'ouse."  De  compositions.  [Laughs]  "De  great 
Lazenby."  It  look  like  she  vas  a  dead  vone.  An' 
she  tell  me  vone  million  times  der  is  no  pianist  like 
'Onore  Lazenby.  [Roars  with  laughter.] 

HONORE  [has  tried  in  vain  to  control  herself] 
Oh,  oh!  That  it  should  come  to  this.  My  hus 
band,  a  miserable  Dago  tenor,  whom  I  raised  to 
stardom,  laughs,  shrieks  with  mirth  when  I'm 
neglected.  Oh,  oh! 

CLARA.     But  Madame,  you're  not  neglected. 

HONORE.     What? 

CLARA.     The  other  papers  extoll  you  to  the  sky. 

HONORE.  You  wicked  girl.  Why  haven't 
you  brought  them  to  me? 

[  63  ] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

CLARA.  You  said  you  wouldn't  look  at  another 
for  Paderewski's  scalp. 

HONORE  [gives  Clara  a  shove]  Get  them  or  I'll 
choke  you. 

[Clara  hurries  out,  right. ] 

RICCARDO  [continues  to  strut]  O,  I  tol'  you.  I 
tol'  you  not  to  play  dem  silly  modern  composers. 
You  laugh  at  gran'  Italian  opera.  But  you  see: 
"de  tenor  of  de  age,"  me,  Riccardo  Bommarito,  vat 
used  to  be  a  vaiter  an'  serve  de  spaghetti.  [With 
a  gesture.] 

HONORE.     You  never  told  me  that. 

RICCARDO.  I  vas  afraid  to.  But  now  you  can 
no  'urt  me  if  you  tell  de  vide  vorld  'ow,  ven  I  vas 
finking  of  my  so  gran'  voice,  I  spill  de  spaghet 
vid  tomat'  sauce. 

HONORE.     Oh  why,  why  did  I  ever  marry  you? 

RICCARDO.     I  am  vone  of  de  vonders  of  de  vorld. 

HONORE.     Puh !  An  Italian  tenor. 

RICCARDO.  No.  An  Italian  tenor  vid  a  vaist 
line, — so  [gesture]. 

[Clara  enters  with  the  papers.] 

CLARA.  They're  all  opened,  Madame,  to  your 
notice. 

HONORE  [snatches  a  paper;  reads]  Oho !  Aha ! 
Half  a  column.  "Superb."  "Fire  and  passion." 
"Like  rain-drops  on  a  bed  of  mignonette." 

[Riccardo  is  horribly  jealous.] 

CLARA.  This  one  says  you  are  unquestionably 
the  greatest  woman  pianist. 

RICCARDO  [imploringly]  Chiara,  Chiara ! 

HONORE  [reads  from  another  paper]  "She  has 
[  64  ] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

the   intellectuality   of   Von   Biilow,    the   technical 
brilliancy  of  Liszt." 

RICCARDO  [tragically]  Chiara,  vat  does  dat 
paper  say  of  me? 

CLARA.  Just  a  moment,  Signor — oh  here — • 
"Bommarito  sang  Cavaradossi  in  his  usual  excel 
lent  fashion." 

RICCARDO  [smiles']  Si.    Vat  else? 

CLARA.     Nothing. 

[Riccardo  holds  his  head.~] 

HONORE  [looking  at  another  paper]  Glorious. 
They  say  of  me  what  Scudo  said  of  Thalberg: 
"Her  scales  were  like  perfectly  strung  pearls  fall 
ing  on  scarlet  velvet." 

[Overjoyed,  Honore  tosses  the  paper  into  the 
air,  moves  to  the  piano  and  plays  Rachmaninoff's 
Prelude  in  G  minor.] 

[As  she  plays]  "When  Bommarito  sings  the 
critics  haven't  time  to  go  to  Madama  Lazenby's  re 
cital."  So?  "The  greatest  woman  pianist." 
"Like  pearls  falling  on  scarlet  velvet." — Liszt, 
Von  Biilow — Ah!  [Gives  herself  up  completely  to 
the  music.] 

[Slight  pause.] 

RICCARDO.    But,  Chiara,  I  vas  vonderful? 

CLARA.  You  were  heavenly.  [Turns  and  goes 
out.] 

RICCARDO  [satisfied]  'Eavenly.  [Walks  back 
and  forth  thinking  only  of  himself.  Soon  bursts 
into  the  Siciliana  again.] 

HONORE    [enraged;   stops  playing]    You   dare 
sing  that  cheap  Italian  ditty  when  I  play? 
[  65  ] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 


RICCARDO.     I  mus'  re'earse. 

HONORE.  When  I  play  no  man  shall  even 
whisper. 

RICCARDO  [furiously^  It  no  matter  if  you  play 
ven  I  vork  like  dem  dogs,  but  I  must  be  a  statue 
ven  you  sit  at  de  damn  mechanical  pianoforte  all 
day  an'  night. 

HONORE.     It's  an  insult  too  great  to  bear. 

RICCARDO.  You  t'ink  you  are  de  vone  person  to 
be  considered.  You  make  beeg  meestake.  I  am 
'ere  an'  I  am  maestro. 

HONORE.     Maestro.     Spaghetti. 

RICCARDO.     You  make  of  my  life  inferno. 

HONORE.     And  you,  what  do  you  do  to  me? 

RICCARDO.  Of  my  peccadilloes  you  make  de 
great  crimes.  I  vid  soul  an'  voice  of  supreme  artist 
must  shut  up  for  a  technician  on  a  music  box. 

HONORE.  I  married  you,  whom  I  found  singing 
at  moving  pictures,  and  I  made  you  a  tenor  in  the 
greatest  opera  house  in  the  world.  And  for  that,  — 
you  bellow  when  I  play. 

RICCARDO.  I  become  de  great  artist  an'  you 
get  so  jealous  you  vish  me  back  in  dot  spaghetti 
business. 

HONORE.     I  do,  I  do. 

RICCARDO.     O  ! 

HONORE.  Then  my  life  was  perfect.  Every 
one  knelt  to  me.  Now  there's  nothing  but  singing 
off-key. 

RICCARDO.     I  nevare  seeng  off-key  ! 

HONORE.     Flatting,  bellowing,  face  as  red  as  a 
lobster  when  you  hold  a  high  note. 
[  66] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

RICCARDO.     Stop  it,  stop  it. 

HONORE.  I  must  listen  to  that.  But  when  I 
sit  down  to  play  one  little  bijou  by  Rachmaninoff 
you  make  the  noise  of  a  parrot.  This  my  thanks 
for  making  you  a  tenor. 

RICCARDO.  You  'ave  de  tenor  of  de  age  for 
'usband. 

HONORE.     A  body  with  a  head  on  top  of  it. 

RICCARDO.     Veil,  dat  is  for  vat  you  marry  me. 

HONORE.  I  married  you  because — why  did  I 
marry  you,  I  wonder. 

RICCARDO.  You  marry  me  because  I  am  Apollo. 
An'  everybody  'e  know  it.  [In  despair^  O,  'Onore, 
'Onore,  an'  I  must  seeng  tonight. 

HONORE.  I  don't  care  whether  you  ever 
"seeng"  again. 

RICCARDO.  If  you  keep  dis  up  my  voice  'e  die 
in  my  t'roat. 

HONORE.  Did  you  speak  to  that  red-haired 
dancer  last  night? 

RICCARDO.  Vid  my  soul  I  speak  to  all  dem 
vomens,  an'  dey  give  me  der  'earts.  Ver  are  my 
mails,  my  letters?  [Sees  letters,  picks  them  up.^\ 
You  'ave  opened  my  letters.  [Reads^  "Dear  Sig- 
nor,  I  cannot  sleep  until  I  vrite  an'  tell  you  dat 
I  vas  in  'eaven  tonight.  I  love  you,  Signer,  I  love 
you."  Fifty  vomens  a  day  love  me. 

HONORE.  Women  who  write  such  letters  should 
be  tarred  and  feathered. 

RICCARDO.  I  had  many  letters  like  dem  from 
you. 

HONORS.  Even  in  a  restaurant  you  sit  and 
[  67  ] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

make  eyes,  such  eyes,  at  the  girl  at  the  next  table. 

RICCARDO.  I  did  not  make  dem  eyes.  I  only 
smile, — so  [smiles'].  An'  you,  so  jealous,  ve  must 
leave  vid  all  de  eaters  laughing.  I  'ear  free  lovely 
vomens  say :  poor  'usband. 

HONORE.  Do  you  think  there  are  no  men  ready 
to  drop  on  the  pavement  so  I  can  walk  over  them? 

RICCARDO.  You  vould,  you  vould!  Because  I 
vill  not  lie  in  dot  gutter,  you  pound  dot  box  wen  I 
seeng  Bianco,  come  fior  de  spino. 

HONORE.  This  settles  it.  I  can't  live  with  you 
another  day. 

RICCARDO.  You  t'ink  dot  make  me  'urt?  Ven 
you  go  I  am  in  paradiso. 

HONORE.     I  shall  go  where  I  am  appreciated. 

RICCARDO.  An'  my  soul  'e  vill  not  tear  every 
five  meenutes. 

HONORE.     My  heart  is  lacerated. 

RICCARDO.     My 

HONORE.     Marble;  or  better,  sandstone. 

RICCARDO.  Vy,  dat  leetle,  bee-eautiful  bal 
lerina — 

HONORE.     Oh!    Separation!    Divorce! 

RICCARDO.  Si.  An'  den — o  paradiso!  [He 
almost  sings  the  O  Paradiso  phrase  from  the  aria 
in  Africana.] 

[Honore  has  picked  up  a  theatrical  sheet  which 
Clara  brought  in  with  the  newspapers.  Absent- 
mindedly  she  has  been  turning  the  pages.  Sud 
denly  she  starts;  reads  intently  for  a  moment,  then 
explodes.] 

HONORE.     Oh,  the  beast ! 
[  68  ] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

RICCARDO.     Vot  is  dat? 

HONORE.     Infamy.     To  print  such  a  lie. 

RICCARDO.     Tell  me  vat  is  it. 

[Honore  hands  the  paper  to  Riccardo.  He 
reads.  Honore  paces  back  and  forth,  muttering.] 

HONORE.     Rogues,  beasts,  demons  incarnate. 

[Riccardo  does  not  grasp  what  he's  reading. 
Reads  again  aloud.] 

RICCARDO.  "Judging  from  indications  a  cele 
brated  tenor  an'  'is  no  less  talented  vife  are  not 
living  in  de  greatest  'armony."  Dio  mio.  "Re 
cently  dey  'ave  quarrelled  in  public.  If  rumor  be 
true,  musical  America  vill  soon  enjoy  a  spicy 
divorce  scandal,  t'ough  de  vriter  'as  not  been  able 
to  learn  if  it  is  de  Madame  or  de  Signor  dat  is 
starting  proceedings.  Ve  vender  vill  de  pianist 
also  drop  the  ridiculous  name  she  acquired  vid  her 
marriage?"  Vat  is  funny  in  Bommarito? 

HONORE  [giving  vent  to  a  furious]  Oh! 

RICCARDO.  Vy,  dis  is  devils,  I  say  dey  are 
devils. 

HONORE.     Go  at  once  and  horsewhip  the  writer. 

RICCARDO.  I  vill.  Dey  make  a  story  vile  of 
our  quiet  'ome — 

HONORE.  They  shall  be  strung  up  for  print 
ing  such  lies. 

RICCARDO.  Dat  is  too  good.  Dragged  t'rough 
de  streets — 

HONORE.  Vulgarians  speaking  so  of  a  great 
tenor  and — 

RICCARDO.  Madame  Lazenby-Bommarito,  de 
foremost  voman  pianist. 

[69] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

HONORE.  Lies,  lies,  we  have  not  quarrelled  in 
public. 

RICCARDO.     My  'eart  'e  is  in  pieces. 

HONORE.  As  though  we  were  bareback-circus- 
riders, — depending  on  press  stories. 

RICCARDO.  An'  always  ve  'ave  lived  vone  quiet 
leetle  life.  I  nevare  even  to?  my  representative 
dot  vonce  I  dish  spaghetti. 

HONORE.     They  shall  suffer  for  this. 

RICCARDO.  Ver  is  my  'at?  I  buy  vone  'orse- 
vip  an'  two  stiletto.  Den  dey  know  not  to  break 
'earts  of  two  great  artists. 

HONORE.  Wait.  We  may  just  as  well  have  a 
more  satisfying  revenge. 

RICCARDO.     Vat  you  mean? 

HONORE.  If  you  kill  the  writer  it  means 
nothing  to  him. 

RICCARDO.  To  kill,  dat  is  only  revenge  for  a 
tenor. 

HONORE.  He  and  his  paper  must  suffer.  Do 
you  know  when  Americans  suffer  the  most? 

RICCARDO.     Vat? 

HONORE.     When  money  is  taken  from  them. 

RICCARDO.     Money?     'Ow,  'ow,  'Onore? 

HONORE.     Seventy-five  thousand  dollars. 

RICCARDO.     So  much?    Can  ve? 

HONORE.     I've  my  eye  on  a  new  string  of  pearls. 

RICCARDO.  So  much  our  'earts  dey  'ave  been 
damaged. 

HONORE.  Send  for  the  lawyer  at  once.  We'll 
sue  them  for  seventy-five  thousand  dollars'  worth 
of  pain. 

[  70] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

RICCARDO  [rushing  to  the  door,  calling]  Chiara, 
Chiara,  qveeck. 

HONORE.  When  we  give  every  moment  of  our 
lives  to  make  people  happy  with  our  music  they 
wound  us  so. 

RICCARDO.  I  vas  to  seeng  Turridu  tonight. 
Now  I  cannot  seeng. 

HONORE.     My  poor  Riccardo. 

RICCARDO.  Dat  paper  'e  'as  deprived  my  great 
public  vone  evening  of  paradise.  A  fat  under 
study  vill  take  my  place. 

[Clara  enters.] 

HONORE.  Call  my  lawyer.  He  must  come  at 
once.  I  am  dying. 

CLARA.     Oh,  you  haven't  really  quarrelled? 

RICCARDO.     Quarrelled? 

HONORE.     We  never  quarrel! 

RICCARDO.  An'  call  opera-'ouse.  I  am  indis 
posed.  I  cannot  seeng  Turridu. 

CLARA.     But  I've  bought  my  seat ! 

HONORE.     Serves  you  right. 

[Clara  goes  out,  right.] 

RICCARDO.  Because  of  dat  paper  I  must  dis 
appoint  leetle  Chiara.  Maybe  she  sue  too? 

HONORE  [moving  right]  When  the  public  learns 
that  we  are  suing  because  our  sacred  home  life  has 
been  disparaged  your  salary  will  go  up  two  hun 
dred  dollars  a  night.  [Opens  door  and  calls] 
Clara. 

CLARA  [off-stage]  Yes,  Madame. 

HONORE.     Send  for  the  photographer  too. 

RICCARDO.     Pictures?  [Already  posing.] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

HONORE  [closes  door}  Yes.  Only  this  morning 
I  had  a  letter  from  the  Theatre  Magazine  asking 
for  pictures  of  our  home  life. 

RICCARDO.     Bene !     Capito ! 

HONORE.  The  magazine  goes  to  press  in  four 
days.  We  will  have  the  pictures  taken  and  every 
one  shall  see  how  the  paper  lied. 

RICCARDO.     Shall  I  pose  as  Turridu? 

HONORE.  Stupid.  Our  home  life.  Like  those 
intimate  family  affairs  in  the  Victor  Supplement. 

RICCARDO  [putting  his  arm  around  her}  'Onore, 
you  are  vonderful. 

HONORE.  My  dear  Dicky.  We  must  rehearse 
the  photographs.  Come  to  the  piano. 

[They  go  to  the  piano.  Honore  sits,  Riccardo 
stands  beside  her.} 

HONORE.  First  we'll  have  a  picture  which  says : 
Madame  plays  her  husband's  accompaniments. 

RICCARDO.     But  you  don't. 

HONORE.  But  the  people  must  think  I  do  if 
we're  to  get  that  seventy-five  thousand.  Stand 
there  so  you  can  find  inspiration  in  my  eyes  when 
you  sing. 

RICCARDO.  As  I  look  at  Mimi  ven  I  seeng 
[sings  the  phrase}  Che  gelida  manima? 

HONORE.  Under  the  picture  shall  be  written : 
Madame  is  Signor's  real  Mimi. 

RICCARDO.     Si,  si. 

[Honore  rises;  takes  music  from  the  piano  and 
Riccardo  by  the  hand.} 

HONORE.     Come. 

[72  ] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

[She  leads  Riccardo  to  the  davenport.  They  sit, 
Honor e  opens  the  music  on  their  laps.'] 

HONORE.     Put  your  arm  around  me. 

[Riccardo  obeysJ] 

HONORE.  This  one  shall  be  called:  the  artists 
study  a  new  role  together. 

RICCARDO.      Shall  I  be  keesing  you? 

HONORE.  That  would  smack  too  much  of 
pleasure.  This  much  seem  to  be  work,  real  work. 

RICCARDO.  O,  you  are  vonderful,  vonderful. 
Vat  else? 

HONORE.     If  we  only  had  a  child. 

RICCARDO.     But  you — 

HONORE.  The  public  believes  no  harm  of 
artists  with  children.  We  must  have  a  child.  In 
the  picture  we'll  be  sitting  on  the  floor,  the  three 
of  us,  playing  with  the  toys. 

RICCARDO.     Der  is  not  time. 

HONORE.  We'll  adopt  one.  Think:  seventy- 
five  thousand  dollars. 

RICCARDO.     O,  ve  go  to  orp'an-'ouse ? 

HONORE.  We'll  borrow  one  for  the  pictures. 
The  janitor  has  six. 

RICCARDO.    But  he  von't  give — 

HONORE.  No  one  will  know  the  difference.  We 
borrow  his  for  today.  Some  day  next  week  we 
adopt  one. 

RICCARDO.     You  are  superb. 

HONORE.  We  will  get  that  seventy-five 
thousand. 

RICCARDO.  Maybe  ve  buy  dem  pearls  to 
morrow. 

[  73] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

HONORE.  Now  call  Clara  and  have  her  bring 
up  one  of  the  children. 

RICCARDO  [goes  toward  door,  right~\  A  little 
giovanetto. 

HONORE.     No. 

[Riccardo  stopsJ] 

HONORE.    A  girl. 

RICCARDO.     I  vant  a  boy. 

HONORE.     It  must  be  a  girl. 

[The  storm  commences.} 

RICCARDO.  I  say  it  must  be  a  boy.  I  vill  make 
'im  great  tenor. 

HONORE.  I  won't  have  a  noisy  boy  around 
here. 

RICCARDO.  A  girl  vill  cry  all  day.  I  von't  'ave 
a  child  unless  'e  is  a  boy. 

HONORE.  Don't  drive  me  mad  again.  Who's 
managing  this?  Who's  doing  the  work?  Who's 
planning  everything?  I  say  it  shall  be  a  girl! 

RICCARDO.  You  vill  not  'ave  your  vay.  You 
vould  make  of  me  vone  slave. 

HONORE.  A  dirty-faced,  sticky  boy.  Never. 
One  male  in  this  apartment  is  too  many. 

RICCARDO.  I  fought  so.  You  vould  be  rid  of 
me. 

HONORE.     Other  men  would — 

RICCARDO.     Just  because  you  play  de  box — 

HONORE.     You  have  no  sympathy. 

RICCARDO.     I  vill  'ave  my  vay,  me  vid  my  voice. 

HONORE.     You  sha'n't.     It  must  be  a  girl. 

RICCARDO.     Den  I  'ave  no  children. 

HONORE.     But  we  must — for  the  pictures. 
[  74  ] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

RICCARDO.  Dis  picture  business  make  me  seeck. 
I  vill  not  pose. 

{Clara  enters.] 

CLARA.     The  photographer  is  here. 

RICCARDO.     Send  'im  avaj. 

HONORE.     No. 

RICCARDO.     Den  it  is  to  be  a  boy? 

HONORE.     Clara,  go  bring  the  janitor's  baby. 

RICCARDO.     Is  dat  baby  vone  boy  or  vone  girl? 

CLARA.     I  don't  know,  Signor. 

HONORE.  Ah,  get  her, — it,  I  mean.  Send  the 
photographer  in. 

[Clara  goes  out,  right.] 

RICCARDO.  [threateningly]  T  bet  dat  janitor's 
baby  'e  is  a  girl.  If  it  is  vone  girl  you  don't  get 
dem  pearls. 

HONORE.     Sh!     He's  coming.     Quick. 

[Honore  takes  his  hand  and  hurries  Riccardo  to 
the  piano.  She  sits  and  begins  to  play  the 
Siciliana.  Riccardo  sings,  looking  into  her  eyes. 
Clara  enters  with  the  photographer.] 

PHOTOGRAPHER.     Good  morn — 

CLARA  [putting  her  hand  over  the  photog 
rapher's  mouth]  Sh! 

[Momentary  pause.  Honore  and  Riccardo  feign 
to  be  oblivious  to  the  others.] 

PHOTOGRAPHER.     I'll  take  that  picture. 

CLARA.     Sh! 

PHOTOGRAPHER  [irrepressible]  Is  this  the  way 
they  practice? 

CLARA.     This  is  love  among  the  lions. 
CURTAIN 
[  75  ] 


BROTHERS 

A  SARDONIC  COMEDY 


CHARACTERS 

SETH 

LON 

PA 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY 
LEWIS  BEACH. 

Originally  produced  by 
The  Provincetown  Players,  December,  1920. 


BROTHERS 

SCENE:  A  very  small  room  in  a  tar-papered 
shanty,  reeking  poverty.  The  entrance  is  centre- 
back, — a  few  boards  nailed  together  for  a  door. 
A  similar  door,  opening  into  the  bedroom  of  the 
shack,  upstage  right.  Downstage  left,  a  broken 
window.  Left  centre,  a  rusty  cooking  stove. 
Above  it,  a  series  of  shelves  holding  a  few  dishes 
and  cooking  utensils.  Rough  board  table  in  the 
centre  of  the  room.  A  kitchen  chair  at  the  right 
of  the  table.  A  large  wooden  rocker  near  the 
stove;  rope  and  wire  hold  it  together.  An  arm 
chair,  below  the  door,  right,  is  -full  of  newspapers. 
Several  heterogeneous  coloured  prints,  culled  from 
out-of-date  newspapers  and  calendars,  are  tacked 
on  the  rain-stained  walls.  When  the  entrance 
door  is  open  we  see  a  cleared,  sandy  spot  with  a 
background  of  scrub  oaks  and  jack  pines. 

The  curtain  rises  on  the  late  afternoon  of  a 
spring  day. 

(A  man  of  forty  enters,  leaving  the  bedroom 
door  open  behind  him.  His  small  head  and  child 
ish  face,  on  a  tall,  thin,  and  extremely  erect  body, 
resemble  those  of  a  species  of  putty-like  rubber 
doll  whose  head  may  be  reshaped  by  the  hand.  He 
wears  a  winter  cap,  blue  flannel  shirt,  well-worn 
trousers  with  suspenders,  and  sneakers  that  were 

[79] 


BROTHERS 

once  white.  Outside  shirt  sleeves  are  rolled  to  the 
elbow;  undershirt  sleeves  are  not.  His  shoes  make 
no  noise;  nevertheless,  he  comes  on  tip-toe,  his  eyes 
•fixed  on  the  shelves.  For  a  moment  he  stops  and 
glances  into  the  room  he  has  just  quitted.  Satis- 
fed,  he  squats  before  the  shelves.  He  hesitates, 
then  quickly  lifts  from  a  lower  shelf  an  inverted 
cooking  vessel,  and  grasps  a  small  tin  box  which 
was  hidden  under  it.  He  inspects  the  box,  trying 
to  decide  whether  he  can  pry  open  its  lock.) 

THE  VOICE  OF  AN  OLD,  INFIRM  MAN  IN  THE  AD 
JOINING  ROOM.     Seth? 

SETH  [alarmed;  starts  to  return  the  box  to  the 
shelf]   Yes,  Pa?      [His  voice  is  pitched  high.] 

PA  [querulously]  What  yuh  doin'? 

SETH.     Jest  settin'. 

PA.     Don't  yuh  go  near  my  tin  box  'til  I'm 
dead. 

[Seth  makes  no  answer.] 

PA.    D'yuh  hear? 

SETH.     I  hear. 

PA.     I  won't  hev  no  one  know  nothin'  'bout  my 
last  will  an'  testament  'til  I'm  dead. 

[There  is  a  pause.     Seth  is  regarding  the  box 
intently.] 

PA.     Seth? 

SETH  [peevishly]  What  d'yuh  want? 

PA.     Bring  me  a  drink. 

SETH.    There  ain't  no  more  water  in  the  pail. 

PA.     There's  lots  in  the  well  this  spring. 

[A  pause.     Seth  continues  his  scrutiny  of  the 
lock.] 

[80  ] 


BROTHERS 

PA.    My  throat's  burnin'  up. 

SETH.  Wall  maybe  I  kin  find  a  drop.  [Puts 
the  box  on  the  shelf  and  re-covers  it;  in  doing  &o 
makes  a  slight  noise. .] 

PA.    What's  that  noise? 

SETH.    I'm  gettin'  yuh  a  drink. 

[Seth  strolls  to  the  stove,  lifts  the  top  from  the 
kettle,  and  looks  inside.  He  finds  a  tin  cup  and 
fills  it  with  water.  Looking  into  the  kettle  again, 
he  sees  there  is  little  water  left.  Why  make  a  trip 
to  the  pump  necessary?  Back  into  the  kettle  goes 
some  of  the  water.  Cup  in  hand,  he  moves  toward 
the  bedroom.  He  reaches  the  door  when  a  sagging- 
bellied  man  enters  from  the  yard.  It  is  Lon,  the 
elder,  shorter  brother.  His  face  has  become 
moulded  into  an  expressionless  stare,  and  his  every 
movement  seems  to  be  made  with  an  effort.  An 
abused  man,  Lon,  the  most  ill-treated  fellow  in  the 
world.  At  least,  so  he  is  ever  at  pains  to  have  all 
understand.  He  wears  an  old  felt  hat,  cotton 
shirt,  badly  patched  trousers,  suspenders  attached 
to  the  buttons  of  his  trousers  with  string,  and  shoes 
that  are  almost  soleless.  His  shirt,  stained  with 
sweat,  is  opened  at  the  throat,  revealing  red  flannel 
underwear.  When  Seth  sees  Lon  he  immediately 
closes  the  bedroom  door,  silently  turns  the  key  in 
the  lock,  and  puts  the  key  in  his  pocket.  For  a 
moment  the  men  stand  looking  at  each  other,  re 
minding  one  of  two  roosters.  Then  Seth  strolls  to 
the  stove,  pours  the  water  into  the  kettle,  and 
planks  himself  down  in  the  rocker.  Lon  glances 
once  or  twice  at  the  bedroom  door,  but  moves  not 
[81  ] 


BROTHERS 

to  it.  He  watches  Seth  suspiciously.  Finally  he 
speaks.] 

LON  \_in  an  expressionless  drawT]  I  hear  Pa's 
dyin'. 

SETH.     Yuh  hear  right. 

LON  [with  a  motion  of  his  head  toward  the  bed 
room]  Is  he  in  there? 

SETH.    Yes. 

[Lon  hesitates,  then  moves  slowly  towards  Pa's 
room.  An  idea  strikes  Seth  suddenly  and  he  in 
terrupts  Lori's  progress.'] 

SETH.    He's  asleep. 

[Lon  stops.  Seth  fills  his  pipe  and  lights  it. 
Lon  takes  his  corncob  from  his  pocket  and  coughs 
meaningly.  Seth  looks  at  Lon,  sees  what  he  wants, 
but  does  not  offer  him  tobacco.  Lon  puts  his  pipe 
back  into  his  pocket,  moves  to  the  table,  sits  and 
sighs.  He  crosses  his  right  foot  so  Seth  sees  what 
was  once  the  sole  of  his  shoe.~\ 

SETH.    What  did  yuh  come  here  fur? 

LON.    'Cause  Pa's  dyin'. 

SETH.     Yuh  never  come  when  he  was  about. 

LON.  Wall,  no  one  ever  seed  yuh  settin'  here 
much. 

SETH  [fleermgly]  Suppose  yuh  want  t'  know 
what  he's  left  yuh. 

LON.  Wall,  it  warn't  comfortable 

comin'  three  miles  an'  a  quarter  on  a  day  like 
this  un. 

SETH  [cackles']  Sand's  hot  on  yer  bare  naked 
feet,  ain't  it? 

LON   [moves  his  feet]   Yuh  kin  talk  'bout  my 

[82] 


BROTHERS 

holey  boots.  If  I  didn't  hev  no  mouths  but  my 
own  t'  feed  I  guess  I  could  buy  new  ones  too.  So 
there,  Seth  Polland! 

SETH.  Jacobs  offered  yuh  a  j  ob  at  the  fisheries 
same  as  me. 

LON.    It's  too  fur  t'  hoof  it  twict  a  day. 

SETH.    Yuh  could  sleep  at  the  fisheries. 

LON.    I  got  t'  look  after  my  kids. 

SETH  [grins]  'Tain't  my  fault  yuh've  kids. 

LON  [threateningly']  Don't  yuh  talk  'bout  that ! 
[Pause.']  Yer  woman  had  t'  leave  yuh.  [Laughs.] 
Yuh  didn't  give  her  'nough  t'  eat. 

SETH   [indifferently]   She  warn't  no  good. 

LON.  She  had  t'  leave  yuh  same  as  Ma  left  Pa 
twenty  years  ago.  Pa's  dyin'  fur  sure? 

SETH.    Who  told  yuh? 

LON.     Ma. 

SETH  [greatly  surprised]  Ma?  [Suspiciously] 
What  yuh  got  t'  do  with  her? 

LON.  I  was  passin'  her  place  this  mornin'. 
Furst  time  I  spoke  t'  her  in  a  year. 

SETH.     I  ain't  in  two. 

LON  [in  despair]  Seth,  she's  cut  twenty  cords  of 
wood  t'  sell. 

SETH  [shaking  his  head]  An'  me  without  a  roof 
o'  my  own. 

LON.  Me  an'  the  kids  wonder  sometimes  where 
our  next  meal's  comin'  from. 

SETH  [as  though  there  were  something  better  in 
store  for  him]  Oh,  wall. 

LON  [pricks  up  his  ears;  coughs]  If  I  had  this 
house  I  could  work  at  the  fisheries. 
[83  ] 


BROTHERS 

SETH.     But  yuh  ain't  a  goin'  t'  git  it. 

LON  [alarmed]  Pa  ain't  gone  an'  left  it  t'  yuh? 

SETH.     Pa  deeded  this  t'  Doc  last  winter. 

LON  [amazed  and  angered']  He  did? 

SETH.  Doc  said  he  could  live  here  'til  he  died. 
But  it's  Doc's. 

LON.    It  warn't  right. 

SETH.  Wall,  he  had  t'  pay  fur  his  physics  some 
way.  He  told  me  yuh  wouldn't  help  him  out. 

LON.  And  Pa  told  me  yuh  wouldn't.  An'  yuh 
ain't  got  two  kids  t'  feed.  [Pause.]  There's  Pa's 
old  shanty  down  the  road.  If  I  had  that  I  could 
work  at  the  fisheries. 

[Seth's  smile  is  his  only  response.] 

LON.    Pa  still  owns  it,  don't  he? 

SETH.  There  warn't  no  call  fur  him  t'  make  his 
last  will  an'  testament  if  he  don't. 

LON  [brightens]  He's  left  his  last  will  an'  tes 
tament  ? 

SETH.  Yes.  I'm  figgerin'  on  sellin'  the  place 
t'  Doc. 

LON  [emphatically]  Pa  ain't  a  left  it  t'  yuh ! 

SETH.    Doc'll  want  it. 

LON  [forcefully]  Where's  the  will  an'  testa 
ment  ? 

SETH  [with  a  gesture]  In  the  tin  box  under  that 
there  kittle. 

[Lon  hurries  to  the  shelves,  picks  up  the  dish, 
and  grasps  the  boxJ] 

LON  [disappointed']  It's  locked. 

SETH.     An'  the  key's  round  Pa's  neck. 

LON.     Let's  git  it. 

SETH.    Pa  won't  give  it  t'  us. 
[84  ] 


BROTHERS 

LON.    Yuh  said  he  was  sleepin'. 

SETH.     I  mean — he  might  wake  up. 

\_Lon  inspects  the  box  further.] 

LON.    I  think  I  could  open  it. 

SETH.     Pa  might  ask  t'  see  it. 

LON.     Hell.     [Puts  the  box  back  on  the  shelf '.] 

SETH.  Doc'll  want  the  place  seem'  as  how  it's 
right  next  t'  this  un. 

[Lon  is  'very  nervous."] 

SETH.     Yuh  might  jest  as  wall  go  home. 

LON.  No,  yuh  don't !  Yuh  oan't  make  me  be 
lieve  Pa's  left  it  t'  yuh.  [Takes  off  his  hat  and 
mops  his  brow  with  his  sleeve.  The  top  of  his  head 
is  very  bald.'] 

SETH.     Then  what  yuh  gittin'  so  excited  'bout? 

LON.  I  ain't  excited.  [Puts  his  hat  on.]  It 
jest  makes  me  mad  'cause  yuh  say  Pa  left  it  t'  yuh, 
an'  I  know  he  ain't.  See?  There  warn't  no  call 
fur  him  t'  hev  willed  an'  testamented  it  t'  yuh. 
Yuh've  only  yerself  t'  look  after  an'  Pve  two 
motherless  kids. 

SETH.  Everyone  knows  how  much  Pa  thought 
o'  them. 

LON.  It  warn't  my  fault  if  they  thumbed  their 
noses  at  him. 

SETH.    Yuh  could  o'  basted  'em. 

LON.  They's  like  their  Ma.  Bastin'  never  done 
her  no  good,  God  rest  her  soul.  All  the  same,  Pa 
knowd  how  hard  it  is  fur  me  t'  keep  their  bellies 
full.  Why,  when  we  hev  bread  Alexander  never 
wants  less  than  half  the  loaf !  An'  all  the  work  I 
[  85] 


BROTHERS 

git  t'  do  is  what  the  city  folks  who  come  t'  the 
Beach  in  the  summer  gives  me. 

SETH.  Huh!  Jest  as  though  I  didn't  know 
'bout  yuh.  Mr.  Breckenridge  told  me  yuh  wouldn't 
even  contract  t'  chop  his  wood  fur  him.  An'  there 
yuh  sets  all  winter  long  in  that  God-fursaken 
shanty  o'  yourn,  with  trees  all  round  yuh ;  an'  yuh 
won't  put  an  axe  t'  one  'til  yer  own  fire  dies  out. 

LON.  My  back  ain't  never  been  strong.  Chop- 
pin'  puts  the  kinks  in  it.  Yuh  kin  talk,  yuh  kin, 
Seth  Polland,  with  a  soft  job  at  the  fisheries  an' 
three  squares  a  day  which  yuh  don't  hev  t'  cook 
yourself.  'Nothin'  t'  do  all  winter  but  walk  round 
them  cottages  an'  see  that  no  one  broke  in.  An' 
I'm  the  one  who  knows  how  often  yuh  walk  round 
them  cottages.  I  wish  I  had  yer  snap.  [Sits."] 
But  I  ain't  never  had  no  luck. 

SETH  [defending  himself]  I  walk  round  them 
cottages  jest  as  often  as  I  needs  t'  walk  round 
them  cottages. 

LON.  Huh!  I  could  tell  a  tale.  Who  was  it 
set  with  his  feet  in  the  oven  last  winter,  an'  let  Jack 
Tompkins  break  into  them  cottages, — with  keys? 
[Seth  does  not  answer.]  I  could  tell,  I  could.  But 
I  ain't  goin'  t'  'til  they  put  me  on  the  witness- 
stand.  [Pause.]  But  the  furst  initials  of  his  name 
is  Seth  Polland. 

SETH  [rising  instantly]  Lon  Polland,  yuh  ever 
tell  an'  I'll  skin  yuh  alive. 

LON.    Huh! 

SETH.    Skin  yuh  like  a  pole-cat. 

LON.    Huh! 

[  86  ] 


BROTHERS 

[Seth  turns,  knocks  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  into 
the  stove.  Lon  rises;  takes  Seth's  chair  and  rocks 
vigorously .] 

SETH.    Yuh  know  what  I  got  on  yuh. 

[Lori's  bravado  is  short-lived.  He  rocks  less 
strenuously.^ 

SETH.  Yuh  thought  I  didn't  see  yuh,  but  I  was 
right  on  the  spot  when  yuh  set  fire  t'  Mr.  Rogers' 
bath-house. 

[Lon  stops  rocking. ~] 

SETH.  Right  behind  a  jack  pine  I  was  an'  seen 
yuh  do  it.  An'  yuh  done  it  'cause  Mr.  Rogers 
leaved  Jessup  paint  the  house  when  you  thought 
yuh  ought  t'  had  the  job. 

LON  [rises']  I  got  t'  be  a  gittin  home  a  fore 
dark  an'  tend  t'  my  stock. 

SETH.  Stock?  [Cackles.  Pulls  out  his  tobacco- 
pouch  and  flls  his  pipe.~\ 

[Lon  shows  his  pipe  again.] 

SETH.  A  blind  mare  an'  a  rooster.  [Drops 
pouch  on  the  table  as  he  lights  his  pipe.] 

LON.  Rooster's  dead.  [Moves  stealthily  toward 
the  table.~] 

SETH.     What  of? 

LON.     Pip. 

SETH.     Starvation. 

LON.  I  would  a  killed  him  this  long  time,  but 
Victoria  howled  so  when  I  threatened.  The  fowl 
used  t'  wake  me  in  winter  same  as  summer  with  his 
crowin'. 

[As  Lon  "finishes  his  speech  he  reaches  for  the 
pouch.  But  Seth's  hand  is  quicker.  Seth  moves 
[  87  ] 


BROTHERS 

to  the  rocker  and  sits,  dangling  the  pouch  tempt 
ingly  by  one  finger.  Lon  puts  his  pipe  in  his 
pocket.] 

SETH.  Should  think  you'd  want  t'  set  round 
'til  Pa  dies,  bein'  as  yer  so  sure  he's  left  yuh  his 
property. 

LON.    He  ought  a  left  it  t'  me. 

SETH.     Wall,  I'm  a  tellin'  yuh  it's  mine. 

LON.  Yuh  ain't  got  no  right  t'  it.  [Mops  his 
head  again.]  Pa  begged  yuh  t'  come  an'  live  with 
him,  offered  yuh  this  fine  roof  over  yer  head,  an' 
yuh  was  too  cussed  even  t'  do  that  fur  him.  An* 
now  yuh  expect  he's  made  yuh  his  heir. 

SETH.     I've  treated  him  righter  'an  yuh. 

LON.    Yuh  ain't. 

[Suddenly  something  seems  to  snap  in  Seth's 
brain.  He  looks  as  though  he  were  in  intense 
pain.'] 

SETH  [gasping]  Maybe  he's  left  it  t'  the  two  of 
us' 

LON.     What? 

SETH.    Maybe  he's  divided  the  place  a  'tween  us. 

LON  [shakes  his  head]  Oh,  he  wouldn't  be  so  un- 
human  as  that. 

SETH.  He  would.  He  was  always  scttin'  one 
agin  t'  other. 

LON.  He  used  t'  tell  me  I  had  t'  figger  how  t' 
git  the  best  o'  yuh  or  he'd  baste  me. 

SETH.  He  was  all  the  time  whettin'  us  on  when 
we  was  kids. 

LON.  It  was  him  showed  me  how  t'  shake  my 
[  88  ] 


BROTHERS 

old  clock  so  it'd  run  fur  five  minutes,  an'  then  you'd 
swop  that  pail  yuh  found  fur  it. 

SETH.  Huh !  He  give  him  his  gum  t'  stop  up 
the  hole  in  that  pail.  Yuh  wouldn't  know  it  leaked 
an'  we  could  laugh  at  yuh  when  you  had  t'  carry 
water  in  it. 

LON  [pathetically]  There  warn't  never  more 
'an  a  pint  left  when  I  got  t'  the  house.  An'  Pa 
always  had  sech  a  thirst. 

SETH.     He'd  like  t'  laugh  at  us  in  his  grave. 

LON.    It  jest  tickled  him  t'  raise  hell  a  'tween  us. 

SETH  [rises]  I'll  take  my  oath  he's  divided  the 
old  shanty  an'  the  two  acres  a  'tween  us.  [Drops 
into  his  chair  like  a  condemned  man.]  An'  I  fig- 
gered  I'd  be  sellin'  them  t'  Doc  t'morrow. 

LON.  Me  an'  the  kids  was  a  goin  t'  hev  a  gar 
den  on  the  cleared  spot. 

SETH.    A  garden  in  that  sand? 

LON.     Radishes  an'  rutabagas. 

SETH  [persuasively;  his  manner  becomes  kind] 
Lon,  what  yuh  need  is  the  shanty. 

LON  [droning]  The  shanty  ain't  no  good  t'  me 
without  I  hev  the  ground  fur  it  t'  set  on. 

SETH.  Yuh  kin  tear  it  down  an'  use  the  lumber 
t'  mend  yer  old  leaky  one. 

LON.  I  want  the  shanty  t'  live  in  so  I  kin  git  a 
soft  job  at  the  fisheries.  [Sympathetically]  Yuh 
ought  t'  hev  a  shanty,  Seth.  Supposin'  yuh  was 
t'  take  sick.  They  wouldn't  keep  yuh  at  the  fish 
eries  then.  Yuh  take  my  place  an'  give  me  Pa's. 

SETH  [flashing  into  anger]  I  want  the  two  acres 
t'  sell  Doc.  Yer  old  place  leaks  like  a  net !  [Then, 
[89] 


BROTHERS 

fearing  he  has  been  too  disparaging:^   But  yuh 
could  make  it  real  comfortable  with  the  lumber  in — 

LON  [cutting  m~\  I'll  make  a  bargain.  I'll  leave 
yuh  a  bedstead  an'  a  table  if  yuh'll  take  my  place. 

SETH.     I  don't  want  it !    I  want  Pa's  old  place. 

LON.    An'  I  want  it.    I'm  older  'an  yuh. 

SETH.     I  got  the  best  claim  t'  it. 

LON.  Yuh  ain't.  Me  with  three  mouths  t'  feed. 
Yer  a  swindler,  yuh  are.  Yuh  always  tried  t'  cheat 
me. 

SETH.  No  one  kin  say  that  t'  me.  I'm  an  honest 
man.  But  I'm  a  goin'  t'  hev  the  two  acres  if  I 
hev  t'  go  t'  law. 

LON.    Wall,  yuh  ain't  a  goin'  t'  wreck  me. 

SETH  [calmly;  philanthropic  again~]  Maybe  yer 
right,  Lon,  when  yuh  say  I  ought  t'  hev  a  roof. 
I'll  tell  yuh  what  I'll  do,  seem'  as  how  yer  my 
brother.  Yuh  give  me  the  ground  an'  the  house  on 
it,  an'  I'll  make  yuh  a  present  o'  twenty-five  dollars. 

LON.  That's  a  lie!  Yuh  ain't  got  twenty -five 
dollars  t'  yer  name. 

SETH.     Yuh  think  so. 

LON.  Every  one  in  these  parts  knows  yuh  owes 
Hawkins  forty-three  dollars  an'  twenty-nine  cents 
he  kin't  collect.  Give  me  the  house  an'  ground,  an' 
I'll  give  yuh  my  own  house  an'  my  note  fur  twenty- 
five  dollars. 

SETH.  Yer  note!  I'm  a  goin'  t'  hev  Pa's  old 
place. 

LON.  An'  I  say  that  yuh  or  no  swindler  like  yuh 
is  a  goin'  t'  cheat  me  out  o'  it. 

SETH.     I  ain't  a  swindler,  yuh  wall-eyed  son — 
[90] 


BROTHERS 

LON  [advancing]  Take  it  back.  Don't  yuli  call 
me  dissipated  names. 

SETH.     I'll  never  take  it  back. 

\Lon  doubles  his  fists  and  strikes.  But  the  blow 
lands  in  the  air  as  Seth  grabs  Lon.  They  fight 
furiously  and  in  dead  earnest,  though  there  is  no 
ethics  to  the  struggle.  The  rickety  furniture 
trembles  as  they  advance  and  retreat.  Seth  is 
quicker  and  lighter  and  less  easily  winded;  but 
Lori's  bulk  is  not  readily  moved,  and,  despite  his 
"weak  back,"  he  can  stiU  wield  his  arm.  It  looks 
like  a  fight  to  the  finish.  But  suddenly  Pa's  voice 
is  heard,  calling  wildly  to  Seth.  The  men  do  not 
move:  the  voice  seems  to  have  paralyzed  their  mus 
cles.  For  a  moment  they  stand  dazed.  Then  con- 
sciousness  comes  to  them;  they  realize  that  the 
waiting  is  over.  They  tear  to  the  bedroom.  A 
silence  follows.  They  must  be  fascinated  by  the 
ghost  of  the  old  man.~\ 

SETH  [in  the  bedroom;  quietly]  He's  gone,  Lon. 

LON  [in  the  bedroom]  Yer  right,  Seth. 

[Then  their  voices  rise  In  dispute.] 

LON.    Don't  yuh  take  it. 

SETH.    I've  got  it ! 

LON.     It's  mine ! 

SETH.    It  ain't! 

LON.    Yuh  kin't — 

SETH.     Shut  up ! 

[They  rush  mto  the  kitchen,  Seth  in  advance, 
Lon  close  on  his  heels.  Seth  throws  the  cooking- 
dish  to  the  fioor,  grabs  the  box  and  hurries  to  the 
table.  As  though  they  were  about  to  discover  a 
[  91  ] 


BROTHERS 

world's  secret,  they  unlock  the  box,  each  as  near 
to  it  as  possible,  his  arms  tense,  fingers  itching, 
ready  to  ward  off  a  blow  or  seize  the  treasure. 
From  the  box,  Seth  takes  an  old  tobacco-pouch,  a 
jack-knife,  a  bit  of  heavy  cord,  and  a  couple  of 
letters.  These  are  contemptuously  thrown  on  the 
table.  The  will  lies  at  the  bottom  of  the  box.  Lon 
snatches  it.  Seth  would  take  it  from  him.] 

LON.     Hold  off!    I'm  jest  goin'  t'  read  it. 

[Seth  curbs  his  impatience.  Lon  opens  the 
document  and  reads,  slowly  and  haltingly.] 

LON.  "I,  Nathaniel  Polland,  o'  Sandy  Point  in 
the  County  o'  Rhodes  an'  State  o'  Michigan,  bein' 
o'  sound  mind  an'  memory,  do  make,  publish,  an' 
declare  this  t'  be  my  last  Will  an'  Testament,  in 
manner  followin',  viz — ."  What  does  "viz"  mean? 

[Unable  to  bear  the  suspense  longer,  Seth  seizes 
the  paper.  He  scans  it  until  his  eyes  catch  the  all- 
important  paragraph.] 

SETH.  " — Bequeath  all  my  earthly  possessions 
to  my  wife,  Jennie  Polland." 

[They  stand  like  two  men  suddenly  deprived  of 
thought  and  motion.  Medusa' 's  victims  could  not 
have  been  more  pitiable.  Then  Seth's  voice  comes 
to  him,  and  sufficient  strength  to  drop  into  a 
chair. ~] 

SETH.    The  damned  old  critter. 

LON.     Pll  be  swaned. 

SETH  [blazing  out]  That's  gratitude. 

LON.    After  all  we  done  fur  him. 

SETH  [pathetically]  An'  me  a  plannin'  these  last 
five  years  on  gettin'  that  house  an'  ground. 
[92] 


BROTHERS 

LON.  My  kids  are  packin'  our  furniture  this 
afternoon,  gettin'  ready  t'  move  in. 

SETH  [with  supreme  disgust^  Leavin'  it  t'  Ma. 

LON.  Her  who  he  ain't  hardly  spoke  t'  in 
twenty  years. 

SETH.    Jest  as  though  yuh  an'  me  wasn't  alive. 

LON.    We'd  given  him  our  last  pipeful. 

SETH.    His  own  flesh  an'  blood. 

LON.  Why,  he  told  me  more  'an  a  thousand 
times  he  hated  Ma. 

SETH.     She  don't  need  it. 

LON.     She's  ready  for  the  grave-yard. 

SETH.  She's  that  stingy,  cuttin'  an'  choppin' 
wood,  sellin'  it  t'  the  city  folks.  We  might  a 
knowd. 

LON.  An'  me  a  comin'  all  the  three  miles  an'  a 
quarter  t'  see  him  a  fore  he  died. 

SETH.    I  been  settin'  here  two  days  a  waitin'. 

LON.  An'  then  t'  treat  us  like  that.  [Wipes 
his  mouth.]  Why,  the  hull  place  ain't  worth  a 
damn! 

SETH.  A  cavin'-in  shanty  an'  two  acres  yuh 
couldn't  grow  weeds  on. 

LON.    A  pile  o'  sand. 

SETH  [rising;  bursting  into  fire  like  an  appar 
ently  dead  rockef]  She  ain't  a  goin'  t'  hev  it! 

LON.     What? 

SETH.     I  won't  let  Ma  hev  it ! 

LON.  But  how  yuh  goin' t'  stop  her?  'T  won't 
do  no  good  t'  tear  up  the  will  an'  testament.  It's 
rec'-ord-ed. 

[93] 


BROTHERS 

SETH.  Don't  make  no  difference.  She  ain't  a 
goin'  t'  hev  that  place. 

LON  [eagerly]  But  how  yuh  goin' — ? 

SETH.    I  don't  know.     But  I'm  goin'  t'. 

LON.     It  ain't  hers  by  rights. 

SETH.    Didn't  she  leave  him  twenty  years  ago? 

LON.    Why,  she  ain't  even  expectin'  it ! 

SETH.     She'll  never  miss  it  if  she  don't  git  it. 

LON  [shaking  his  head]  Me  an'  the  kids  packed 
up,  ready  t'  move  in. 

[There  is  a  silence.  Lon,  deep  in  his  disappoint 
ment;  Seth,  making  his  brain  work  as  it  has  never 
worked  before.  And  he  is  rewarded  for  his  dili 
gence.  A  suggestion  of  his  sneering  smile  comes 
to  his  face.'] 

SETH.    Lon  ? 

LON.     Yes  ? 

SETH  [looks  about,  making  sure  that  only  his 
brother  is  listening]  Yuh  'member  what  yuh  done 
t'  Rogers  when  he  didn't  leave  yuh  paint  his  bath 
house? 

LON  [his  eyes  open  wide]  Burn  it? 

SETH.     Sh ! 

LON.     Oh,  no ! 

SETH.     Yuh  don't  want  Ma  t'  hev  it,  does  yuh? 

LON.  When  I  burned  that  bath-house  I  didn't 
sleep  good  fur  a  couple  o'  nights.  I  dreamed  o' 
the  sheriff. 

SETH.  Nobody  knows  but  me.  An'  nobody'll 
know  yuh  an'  me  set  fire  t'  Pa's  old  place. 

LON.    Yuh  swear  yuh  won't  never  tell? 

SETH  [raising  his  right  hand]  I  swear. 
[94  ] 


BROTHERS 

LON.  Yuh  won't  never  try  an'  make  out  I  done 
it  next  time  we  run  agin  each  other  fur  district 
school-inspector  ? 

SETH  [raising  his  hand  again']  I  swear.  'Cause 
if  I  kin't  hev  Pa's  old  place,  no  one  kin. 

LON.     Got  matches? 

SETH.  Yes.  An'  Pa's  kerosene-can's  got  'bout 
a  pint  in  it.  [Takes  the  can  from  the  bottom 
shelf.'] 

LON.  I  may  as  wall  take  these  papers  along 
with  me.  [Picks  up  the  newspapers.] 

[Seth  moves  to  the  table.  Begins  to  fill  his  pipe. 
Lon  takes  his  corncob  from  his  pocket  and  coughs. 
Seth  looks  at  Lon,  meditates,  then  speaks.] 

SETH.     Hev  a  smoke,  Lon? 

LON.    Maybe  I  will. 

[Lon  fills  his  pipe.  Seth  strikes  a  match,  lights 
his  own  pipe  first,  then  hands  the  match  to  Lon.] 

SETH.     We're  brothers. 

LON.  The  same  flesh  an'  blood  has  got  t'  treat 
each  other  right. 

[Lon  starts  to  put  Seth's  tobacco-pouch  in  his 
pocket  but  Seth  stops  him.] 

SETH.  An'  we  wouldn't  be  treatin'  each  other 
right  if  we  let  Pa's  property  come  into  Ma's  hands. 

[Seth  carries  the  kerosene;  Lon,  the  papers. 
They  go  out  the  bade  door  and  disappear.  Then 
Seth's  voice  is  heard.] 

SETH  [in  the  yard]  Wait  a  minute,  Lon.  [Seth 
returns.  He  picks  up  Pa's  tobacco-pouch,  knife 
and  scissors,  glances  toward  the  door  to  see  that 
[95] 


BROTHERS 

Lon  isn't  watching,  and  sticks  them  into  his 
pocket.] 

LON  [in  the  yard]  What  yuh  doin',  Seth?  [Ap 
pears  at  the  door.] 

SETH.  I  thought  I  left  somethin'  valuable.  But 
I  ain't.  [He  leaves.] 

[Lon  and  Seth  pass  out  of  sight.] 

CURTAIN 


[96] 


1  A        c  o  o 


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Book  Slip-557«-10,'68(J4048s8)458— A-3L/5 


W3UUU 

Beach,  L. 

Four  one-act  plays. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 
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